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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27638624">The Hanged Man</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellispark/pseuds/ellispark'>ellispark</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Attempted Murder, Child Abuse, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mystery, Plotty, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 18:48:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>87,602</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27638624</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellispark/pseuds/ellispark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After Park Ranger Cas Novak saves a mysterious stranger named Dean from an attempted murder in the woods, he finds himself drawn into the man's secretive life.</p><p>Someone tried to kill Dean, but he's not telling who. In fact, he's barely speaking at all. If he's going to have any hope of helping Dean, Cas will have to convince the man to trust him — all while trying not to fall in love with him along the way.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>120</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>532</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>DCBB 2020, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue: The Hanged Man</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please read:</p><p>There are a couple of issues addressed in this story that I didn't add tags for because they contain spoilers. It's nothing related to the main warnings, but if you're worried about possible triggers I've added a note at the bottom of the prologue with additional tags for those who don't mind spoilers.</p><p>Also, while the art in this first chapter is very well done, it does contain graphic images of an attempted hanging! Please be aware before you proceed.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>He’s lost track of the miles he’s run. He’s lost track of where he is, where he’s going, and what he’s looking for.</p><p> </p><p>He can’t feel his feet anymore, and it’s a mixed blessing — too numb to feel the cuts and bruises left by the brush and the rocks, but also too numb to find sure footing as he runs pell-mell down the mountainside. Every step is jarring, shaking his bones from feet to hips. The adrenaline is such he can’t feel the way his body aches, but he can sense the pain, waiting for him to slow down enough so it can catch up.</p><p> </p><p>But he can’t slow down. He hears them running behind him. A hound is baying. He hates the hounds.</p><p> </p><p>On his reconnaissance missions weeks ago, he found the road easily — he remembers the giant pine marking his left-hand turn toward a large crop of borders sitting right on the edge of the trail, a little trod path down the mountain. Toward help. Toward freedom. If he can just spot the damn pine he’d know where to run, but he can’t see the moon for the trees. The hounds are getting closer.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t see the rock that causes his downfall. It catches against his big toe, scraping the nail away and tripping him. Down he goes, windmilling his arms in an attempt to stay upright, gasping at the stabbing pain that reaches through the numbness of the cold. He falls, hard and face first, smashing into the dirt.</p><p> </p><p>There’s no time to stay down. He pushes up with a grunt and nearly falls down again when he puts weight on the foot with the injured toe. His ankle screams in protest — twisted when he hit the rock. He bites his lip and surges forward, hobbled and bruised, but every step is a new agony. He’s lost and he’s hurt, and he’s beginning to think he might not make it.</p><p> </p><p>The pain in his ankle and toe is nothing compared to the feeling of the teeth latching onto his calf through his jeans, dragging him back to the dirt. He can’t help the scream that forces its way past his lips when the second dog reaches him and latches onto his arm. It’s a scream of surrender, of defeat.</p><p> </p><p>A sharp whistle calls the hounds back, and as quickly as they fell upon him they desert him, their job done. He scrambles to his hands and knees, but it’s a futile effort. Someone kicks him in the ribs, and he falls flat. Hands grab at him from what feels like every side, someone purposefully digging into the bloody bite on his calf, and he shouts and rails and lashes out, aiming for balls and eyes, but to no avail.</p><p> </p><p>The noose they throw around his neck is rough and damp and unexpected, and when he tries to wiggle away from it, they tighten the knot till it presses against his trachea, taking his breath away. The one holding the rope yanks him backwards, away from the hands of the others, pulling him across the dead leaves and tree roots and rocks that scrape at his bare back. He claws at the noose, gasping for air, and the dragging stops. Looking up, he can see the shadowy outlines of his pursuers — and the pine tree.</p><p> </p><p><em>So fucking close.</em> Tears rise in his eyes, horror and despair at the thought of the place he’d marked for his salvation being the place where he breathes his last.</p><p> </p><p>Someone yanks the rope over the lowest branch, jerking him up with it. He attempts to get a foothold, but they pull it too high, tie it too tightly. More hands grab his arms and force them behind his back, holding them together until he stops thrashing.</p><p> </p><p>When they’re done, the tips of his toes are barely touching the ground. His body sways as he attempts to put any pressure on his toes to save his neck. It feels useless. He’s already lightheaded, choking, and there’s a ringing in his ears.</p><p> </p><p>Now they have him where they want him — dangling, struggling to hold up his weight — they let go of his arms. They fall limp to his sides, tingling from cold and revived circulation. He can’t think clearly enough to use them to pull at the noose.</p><p> </p><p>Out of the crowd of his pursuers steps the leader, his lips pursed in a thin line. He appears sorrowful, and, for a moment, it feels like there might be hope.</p><p> </p><p>“Please,” he gasps, the word coming out raw and raspy around the knot of the noose.</p><p> </p><p>He looks at the man who raised him, who taught him how to hold a gun, how to fight, how to be a leader. The man who lied to him and betrayed him.</p><p> </p><p>“I am sorry, Dean,” he says.</p><p> </p><p>They stare at each other. One crying, dying; the other impassive, immovable. Then the group surrounding the hanging tree filters into the woods, disappearing into the brush one by one. Leaving him to die alone.</p><p> </p><p>As the edges of his sight dim, the sun begins to rise.</p><p>
  
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>IF YOU DON'T WANT SPOILERS, DON'T READ FURTHER.</p><p>Hi! Here are some further tags for those not worried about spoilers:</p><p>Kidnapping, cults, murders alluded to</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Part I: The Star</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Castiel Novak cannot wait for his boss to retire.</p><p> </p><p>He certainly admires the man — Bobby Singer is one of the most respected park rangers in West Virginia, and, unlike some of his contemporaries, he has a deep-seated irreverence for pointless bureaucracy that Cas appreciates. He’s extremely knowledgeable, a skilled tracker, and a master of bullshit (which comes in handy when the higher ups are trying to enforce petty regulations at parks they’ve never visited). But Bobby also tends to shove off the work he doesn’t want to do on his only underling, which means Cas spends a lot of time walking the closed trails in their sector of the Appalachian Mountains at dawn.</p><p> </p><p>Cas enjoys hiking — he wouldn’t have become a park ranger if he didn’t — but he also enjoys sleeping a full eight hours, which he can’t do when Bobby has him scheduled to guide three tour groups in the morning on top of making a loop around the Lovers’ Lane Trail, which is currently closed to the public due to multiple black bear sightings.</p><p> </p><p>Truthfully, Cas mostly has himself to blame for the pre-dawn hike. He’s the one who wanted to make sure the campground at the top of the trail wasn’t damaged in the thunderstorm that rolled through the area two weeks ago, and he’s the one who didn’t keep his mouth shut about something stalking him along the trail on his last rounds. If he hadn’t told Bobby he’d heard branches breaking behind him in the woods, he wouldn’t be out here now, armed with a rifle and eyeing the trees for wayward predators.</p><p> </p><p>Cas hates guns, and he hates hitting the trail before he’s had at least two cups of coffee. But it could be worse. He could have told Bobby the whole truth.</p><p> </p><p>Cas knows what followed him up the trail two weeks ago, and it wasn’t an animal.</p><p> </p><p>The first half of that hike passed easily enough — no bears, no downed trees, and no intrepid hikers brushing past the “TRAIL CLOSED” sign. Cas reached the campground at 6 p.m., just as the sun began to go down. The bathrooms were in working shape, though the showers spat out brown water for the first few minutes after he turned the faucets on, the pipes rusty and disused. Cas was pleased to see no signs of errant campers — teenagers usually can’t resist the name ‘Lovers’ Lane,’ closed or not — or foraging from anything other than deer.</p><p> </p><p>He decided not to haul his two-man tent up the mountain, instead bringing a hammock he strung up between two trees about ten yards away from the trailhead. After a quick meal — a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, washed down with water — Cas turned on his headlamp light and read a thriller until he felt ready to sleep.</p><p> </p><p>Bobby would probably blame what happened next on Cas getting jumpy over a novel, but Cas knows what he saw. He woke up a little after midnight, an unease settling over him as he tried to get his bearings. Even after ten years with the park service Cas is unused to waking up in strange places, and it took him a moment to recognize his surroundings. He heard the footsteps before he’d sufficiently woken up, and they startled him to alertness, one hand already sneaking out of the hammock to reach for his rifle.</p><p> </p><p>In the pale moonlight filtering thorough the canopy of tree branches, Cas saw the shadow of man at the trailhead. He carried no light, no pack — nothing, so far as Cas could tell. And he simply stood there. Silent. Watching.</p><p> </p><p>Cas had no doubt he’d been spotted, and his sluggish mind made the connection to noises he’d heard along the trail earlier in the day — like something walking behind him, though he every time he turned around, nothing was there. Predators had stalked him before, and he knew the signs — but this hadn’t sounded like the heavy footfalls of a large animal. He blew it off as tricks of the wind.</p><p> </p><p>The idea of a man following him up the trail, walking around in the dark without a light to guide him, was so absurd, for a moment Cas couldn’t comprehend it. His hand froze on its journey to his pack, and he narrowed his eyes in a vain attempt to make out the figure at the edge of the campsite. It stood, unmoving but solid, and very, very real.</p><p> </p><p>In a burst of terrible fear, Cas remembered the Appalachian Trail murders. He wasn’t about to become another statistic. He reached for the gun.</p><p> </p><p>The figure bolted — not down the trail, but up into the forest. Scrambling to turn on his headlight and adjusting his hold on his gun, Cas yelled, “Stop!” But all he heard in response were the crashing sounds of someone running full speed through the thick brush. He shoved his feet into his boots and followed for about a hundred yards, but the night was too dark and the woods too thick to make out a complete trail. Cas turned around and went back to camp, and he sat up all night, rifle across his lamp.</p><p> </p><p>The man didn’t return.</p><p> </p><p>It sends a shiver down his spine now, thinking about the unnatural stillness of the figure. How he barely made a sound, how his footsteps fell light and quiet and practiced. Cas knows the mark of an expert woodsman, and he knows one followed him for a full day, stalking him along Lovers’ Lane, waiting for him to settle in for the night before moving in. He just doesn’t know what the man planned to do when he caught up to Cas. And it frightens him.</p><p> </p><p>Cas is uneasy as he makes his way up the trail, eyes and ears on high alert. He’s carrying the rifle again, but it’s not for a cougar or a bear. Cas hates killing on principal, but he’s shot someone who was trying to kill him before. He could do it again if he had to. He hopes it doesn’t come to that.</p><p> </p><p>The sun rises in the east as he rounds the bend at the half-mile marker, about a quarter of the way up the trail, and the rays momentarily blind him. The sight that greets Cas as he makes the turn and blinks away the bright light is so horrific he stumbles back in shock, instinctively reeling away from the massive pine tree that dominates the view of the mountain from the trail.</p><p> </p><p>There, hanging from the lowest branch, is the body of a man, his naked and bloodied back turned away from Cas. The edges of his toes drag against the ground, making morbid patterns in the dirt as his limp body sways in the wind.</p><p> </p><p>Cas presses a fist to his mouth, overwhelmed. People journey to national parks to commit suicide all the time — his colleagues in busier areas find about one per year, usually hangings or gunshot victims. But in his ten years with the service, Cas has never been the one to find a body. He’s seen death before, yes, but always in expected places. War zones. Hospitals. Never like this, with the cold October air whistling through the trees and the birds chirping contentedly from their nests.</p><p> </p><p>Once the shock passes, Cas recognizes this is his problem to take care of – his cross to bear. He fumbles for the radio on his belt as he runs along the path to the pine, pressing the call button and shouting “We’ve got a 10-50 F on Lovers’ Lane at the half-mile marker!” through the static buzz.</p><p> </p><p>He drops the radio before he gets a response, digging for the pocketknife he always carries. Cas pulls it out, pausing in front of the man, and as he looks up to judge where best to cut the rope, he catches a glimpse of the man’s face. It’s purplish and mottled, veins protruding along his neck and forehead. His mouth hangs partially open, swollen tongue poking out. His eyes are bloodshot, but clearly green. Cas’s hand shakes as reaches up for the rope.</p><p> </p><p>The man blinks.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh god...” Everything that follows seems to happen in a blur — the man blinks, and Cas hears his rattling breath; Cas frantically grabs onto his knees with one arm, clumsily attempting to support him by creating slack in the rope to let him breathe. Cas saws at the rope one-handed, muttering, “You’re going to be okay, I’ve got you, hold on, you’re going to be fine” as he tries to support the weight of a full-grown man and cut through a thick piece of hemp at the same time.</p><p> </p><p>He’s not sure how long it takes, but the distinctive sound of the rope snapping seems to echo across the forest, waking him from a momentary nightmare. Cas just manages to drop the knife and get his other arm around the man’s back before he can fall. Doing his best to support the man’s neck, Cas lowers him gently to the ground.</p><p> </p><p>Cas’s hands move with more surety than he feels as he tugs the rope away from the man’s throat. He doesn’t pull it all the way off, but as the noose falls the slack allows the man’s labored breaths to grow louder, steadier. He’s not fully conscious, his head lolling to the side, mouth open and drooling. Cas doesn’t attempt to rouse him because he doesn’t think he can, instead gently supporting his head with the palm of one hand while grabbing his discarded radio with the other.</p><p> </p><p>“Ranger 2-0 for Ranger 2-5.” A crackle of static. “Bobby, come in! I’ve got a 10-50 PI at that big pine near the half-mile marker of Lover’s Lane. I need medics en route ASAP. Do you copy?”</p><p> </p><p>A burst of static, followed by Bobby’s welcome grumble, “Yeah, I heard you the first time. We’ve got a deputy en route; do you want me to call up Garth 10-78? This ain’t a fatality?”</p><p> </p><p>Cas keeps his index finger on the man’s sluggish pulse as he says, “No, attempted suicide by hanging. He’s still alive, but I need a medic up here.”</p><p> </p><p>“Roger.” Bobby may be a grumpy bastard, but he’s all business when it counts. “I’m calling them up now.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you,” Cas breathes into the radio, though it’s unnecessary. Bobby’s probably already on the radio with the park service medics, and next he’ll be calling 911 to get an ambulance to the bottom of the trail.</p><p> </p><p>The hike here isn’t steep, and most of it is accessible via four-wheeler, but help is likely twenty minutes away at the earliest. Cas has taken care of the immediate issue, and there’s not much else he can do for the man until the medics arrive. He has first aid training, but it’s been a while since they covered suicides, and the common assumption is that all the ranger will be able to do is cut the body down and wait for law enforcement to arrive.</p><p> </p><p>Green Eyes is still breathing and his heart is still beating and if Garth gets up here as fast as he can, maybe he’ll make it through this. Cas can’t look away from his face, slowly gaining back its color, red flushing away the purple tint in his freckled cheeks. Cas carefully eases his hand out from under Green Eyes’ head so he can strip off his thick outer jacket and lay it over the man’s uncovered torso. His feet are red from the chill air, so Cas takes off his own boots and socks, pulling the socks over Green Eyes’ feet before putting his boots back on.</p><p> </p><p>“What happened to you?” he asks the man when he kneels back next to his head, checking his pulse again. It’s sluggish, but still there. He scans Green Eyes, looking for answers. Alone on a closed trail, no shirt, no jacket, no socks in early September. The weather is much warmer than usual for this time of year, but he still subjected his extremities to the possibility of frostbite. And the scratches along his chest, back and feet suggest he was in the brush for a while before he pulled the rope over his head. Cas spots a dark blot of blood on one leg of the man’s jeans, where the fabric seems to be torn through. He debates investigating the injury, but decides not to risk jostling the man.</p><p> </p><p>“It doesn’t matter what happened, OK?” he says to Green Eyes, who sluggishly blinks at his voice. Cas takes that as a good sign, and he keeps talking, word vomit spilling out in between quick glances at his watch and radio. “It doesn’t matter why you felt you had to do this; you’re going to live. You’re going to live, and you’re going to be fine. I’m here, okay? You’re not alone. Help is here.”</p><p> </p><p>He brushes the dirt and sweat-streaked hair off the man’s forehead.</p><p> </p><p>“You deserve to be saved.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Cas follows the ambulance to the hospital. He doesn’t have to time to think about whether he’s neglecting his duties or not — he waves at Bobby as he and the medics pass the park ranger’s office, then he’s in his truck headed toward town.</p><p> </p><p>Green Eyes is rushed through to see a doctor right away, leaving Cas standing in the middle of the emergency room, hat in hand, lost. He isn’t family, isn’t a friend. He idly wonders if there’s a box you can tick for “rescuer” on the ER forms. The woman at the front desk raises her eyebrows at him until he takes a seat next to the door, uncertain now he’s stopped moving.</p><p> </p><p>He wants to know if Green Eyes is going to be alright, but he’s not sure they’ll be able to tell him anything. He knows he can’t go back to work and take a bunch of elementary school kids on an introductory hike when he has the image of Green Eyes’ face stuck in his head, veins bulging as he tried to breathe around the rope pulling at his throat. Cas rubs his hands over his eyes, repressing a shudder.</p><p> </p><p>He hears the plastic cover on the seat decompress as someone sits next to him. He peers out between the fingers over his eyes, taking his hands away when he sees Jody Mills, the local sheriff.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey Cas,” she says, face grim. She’s holding two cups of hospital coffee, black and smelling slightly charred. She hands one to him. “My deputy told me about the attempted suicide. Thought you might still be here.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas doesn’t know Jody well — he doesn’t know anyone here <em>well</em>, really, because all he does is work — but she’s assisted the park service rangers on occasion, and vice versa. Anything big that happens in Cas’s jurisdiction is technically purview of the FBI, but most of the smaller stuff — like attempted suicide — they’re ready to pass off to the locals. The last suicide in the park, a gunshot victim found by Bobby not ten yards off the main trail three years ago, was worked jointly between their offices. There’s no bad blood between the park rangers and the county sheriff’s department, which is more than Cas can say for many of the other areas he’s worked in.</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks,” he says, taking the coffee and raising it in a slight salute. He drinks while she keeps talking.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m going to need you to give me a formal statement later, but for now I wanted to make sure you’re alright. Bobby said this is your first suicide?”</p><p> </p><p>Cas grimaces around a mouthful of dirt-flavored coffee. He can just imagine Bobby calling Jody up about “baby’s first suicide victim.” He has a decade of experience, but Bobby still calls him “kid” half the time. It should be insulting, but Cas appreciates the way it makes him feel like he’s endeared himself to the old man. His own parents never called him anything but Castiel, or Castiel James when they were angry.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve seen worse, Jody,” he says. “Veteran, remember?”</p><p> </p><p>Jody shrugs, a what-can-you-do-about-Bobby motion they’re both familiar with.</p><p> </p><p>“I figured. But it’s always a little more intense when it’s somebody you might be able to save. I just don’t want you to blame yourself if he goes sideways in there.” Jody nods her head toward the closed doors to the ER. “You did the best you could.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas scowls at his coffee and doesn’t respond. Jody, blessedly, switches tracks and gets down to business.</p><p> </p><p>“Where exactly did you find him?”</p><p> </p><p>“Lovers’ Lane.” Cas downs the dregs of his cup and crumples the Styrofoam in his fist. “Past the bend at the half-mile marker, under the big pine.”</p><p> </p><p>Jody presses her lips together. “What do you remember of the scene?”</p><p> </p><p><em>His face</em>, Cas thinks, <em>how distorted and pained he looked before he could breathe again. </em>Aloud he says, “Not a lot... I was focused on getting him down once I saw he was still alive. Uh, the rope was hemp, thick. Old. He wasn’t wearing a shirt or shoes, and his back, chest and feet were covered in scratches from the brush. Bruises, too, on his arms.”</p><p> </p><p>Jody raises her eyebrows but doesn’t comment, writing in her notebook while her phone records his words.</p><p> </p><p>“There was, uh, some type of wound on one of his legs? The right leg, I believe? It was bleeding through his jeans...”</p><p> </p><p>“Did you notice any additional footprints in the vicinity of the tree?”</p><p> </p><p>Cas’s head snaps up.</p><p> </p><p>“Additional footprints?”</p><p> </p><p>Jody flips through her notes. “Bruises on his arms, exposed skin torn up — when there are a lot of extraneous injuries we have to look at the possibility it wasn’t a suicide attempt.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas knows people are sometimes murdered in parks. It’s not as frequent as suicides, but it happens — lovers’ quarrels turn deadly, deranged individuals stalk campers through the woods, disgruntled business partners dump bodies. He thinks of his own experience, a mere two weeks ago.</p><p> </p><p>“Jody,” he says quietly, and her eyes catch his, concerned at the change in tone. “It might be relevant to note that someone followed me up the Lover’s Lane trail in late August.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Jody says, incredulous, “that <em>might </em>be relevant, Cas. What happened?”</p><p> </p><p>Cas shoots her an exhausted grimace for the sarcasm. “I heard noises in the woods on my way up the trail. Then I saw them, after I’d hung up my hammock at campsite 10.”</p><p> </p><p>“Male or female?” Jody interrupts.</p><p> </p><p>“Male, I believe. About my height, medium build. It was dark and he didn’t carry a light, so I couldn’t see much. When I grabbed my gun he ran away — into the woods, not down the trail.”</p><p> </p><p>“That is odd.” Considering how many hikers they have to search for every year after they wander off-trail, a nighttime, unlit bolt into the wilderness ranks high on the list of “Things You Shouldn’t See in the Park.” “Did you pursue?”</p><p> </p><p>“For a bit. I lost track of his trail quickly in the dark. And I didn’t want to follow him into some sort of trap, if that was his intention.”</p><p> </p><p>“Did you see anything else suspicious on Lovers’ Lane before or after that incident?Even small things can be important.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas rubs at his temples, thinking. The trail isn’t their most popular option, starting out gradual and then changing to steep toward the top, with a bit of a scramble needed in one section. It’s too difficult for beginning hikers and too easy for advanced hikers. The campsite at the top of the trail sees the most use in early summer, when hikers attempting to cross all over Appalachia use it as a pit stop. In the fall, even without storms or bear sightings, it’s mostly vacant. It’s closed in the winter.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know, Jody,” he says. “I saw some storm damage – trees branches on the trail, that sort of thing – but nothing major. We don’t hike that one often. People could throw Satanic orgies at the campground and get away unnoticed as long as they clean up after themselves.”</p><p> </p><p>Jody snorts a laugh. “They’re more likely to be furry orgies today. This isn’t the ‘80s.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas doesn’t know what a “furry” is, nor does he intend to ask. “Maybe we should have kept a better eye on it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well.” Jody pauses to take a sip of her coffee, which must be cold now. “It does help to know the trail is isolated. Means either our guy in there or his possible assailants knew the area well enough to know where he might not be found for a while. They weren’t expecting you, that’s for sure.”</p><p> </p><p>Jody flips her notebook closed and tucks it into her inside jacket pocket, leaning back in the chair. The blue plastic squeaks indignantly as she settles in.</p><p> </p><p>“You can go back to work, Cas,” Jody says. “I’ll have you and Bobby run by the office later for official statements, but this—” She gestures around the waiting room, encompassing the tired looking woman slouched sleeping on a chair in the far corner and the bored nurse at the check-in desk “—is a waiting game.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas never intended to leave Green Eyes’ side, not from the moment he saw him blink. He leans back in his chair.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll stay until I hear he’s all right.”</p><p> </p><p>Jody eyes him, assessing, then shrugs, pulling out her phone to look at news. Probably checking to see if the local paper caught wind of the body found in the forest this morning.</p><p> </p><p>“Suit yourself,” she says as she scrolls.</p><p> </p><p>They sit in silence, listening to the nurse’s clacking keyboard and the low burr of the news on the room’s lone TV. Fox, of course. Cas is tempted to ask the nurse to change the channel, but every time he so much as glances her way she levels him with a bored stare before resuming her work. His smart phone is new, and he still doesn’t know how to use it — how to pull up Twitter or take pictures or do anything but call people. So Cas fidgets, waiting for the only news he cares about, which eventually comes in the form of a doctor in a white lab coat swinging in through the doors at the end of the room.</p><p> </p><p>“Sheriff,” Dr. Linda Tran motions with her head, urging Jody to stand up and cross the room. Cas follows a step behind, unsure of his welcome.</p><p> </p><p>He knows Dr. Tran, but only vaguely — in a town this small, it’s difficult not to know one of the most prominent residents. Tran’s taken in more than one patient injured on the trails — broken legs, thrown out backs, crushed ankles. Garth is in love with her, in the way Garth seems to be in love with every person he comes into contact with — gushing about her professionalism and her care for the park’s patients with that genuine adoration he reserves for absolutely everyone. Cas used to think the cheery park medic might be in love with <em>him</em>, until Bobby told him Garth is happily married and just treats everyone like the sun shines out of their asses.</p><p> </p><p>His own interactions with Tran have been limited. She taught his CPR recertification course a year ago, and Cas hasn’t spoken with her since except for a wave and a “hello” or two at the local grocery store. Now she looks at him and shakes her head, holding up a palm in a “stop” gesture.</p><p> </p><p>“Novak, this is confidential information under HIPAA. I’m sorry, but I’m going to need you to wait over there.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas feels his stomach start to drop, but Jody interjects, “Linda, he’s assisting me in this investigation. Whatever you’re going to tell me, I’m going to tell Ranger Novak.”</p><p> </p><p>Tran purses her lips together, doubtful, but she doesn’t push back. She brings her clipboard up from her hip and begins scanning her notes as Cas moves to stand next to Jody, part of the inner circle.</p><p> </p><p>“So, presented with a standard near hanging victim, male, age unknown —”</p><p> </p><p>“Wait,” Jody interrupts, brow furrowed. “Age unknown?”</p><p> </p><p>“There was no ID,” Tran says, as if she’s reciting another medical trauma. “No personal effects, nothing.” Cas and Jody exchange a loaded look, but Tran rolls right over any possible commentary, listing symptoms, “Our John Doe was drifting in and out of consciousness when he was brought in — he exhibited motor response to withdraw from pain, no verbal response, eyes opening in response to speech.”</p><p> </p><p>Tran pauses, eyes narrowing as she evaluates her chart, deciding what information is pertinent to two cops.</p><p> </p><p>“Blood pressure was high and respiratory rate was low. Clear ligature marks on the neck, consistent with hanging with weight unsupported. We stabilized his neck with a cervical collar then preformed an endotracheal intubation. He’s currently sedated and breathing with assistance, but brain scans have come back normal, which is very good news. We’ll know more when he wakes up, but for now he’s stable.”</p><p> </p><p>Tran glances up, looking directly at Cas for the first time since she started her spiel.</p><p> </p><p>“You saved his life,” she says matter-of-factly. “Patients presenting with these injuries typically have only minutes to live from the time they go limp on the rope. If you hadn’t seen him, he’d be dead by now.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas swallows, unsure what, if anything, to say in response to that. Jody squeezes his arm.</p><p> </p><p>“His other injuries, doctor?” Jody asks.</p><p> </p><p>“Right.” Tran bites her lip in a brief moment of uncertainty, which flabbergasts Cas. He’s never known Linda Tran to be uncertain about anything. “The other injuries are odd for a suicidal hanging. He presented with deep scratches on his feet consistent with running through a brushy area without shoes. Similar scratches on his back, as if he’d been dragged.” She raises her eyes from John Doe’s chart to meet theirs. “He also had bruises on his arms and legs, roughly the shape and size of fingerprints. And two distinct animal bites, likely canine — a shallow one on the arm and a deep one on the calf. Recent. The wounds were fresh, and the leg wound was still bleeding after we’d stabilized his neck and intubated his throat. Everything has been cleaned for infection and we’ve given him a rabies shot as a precaution, though we’ll have to keep a close eye on him. Hospitals and open wounds, you know the drill.”</p><p> </p><p>“Dog bites,” Jody repeats, stuck on the most suspicious symptoms. “And drag marks.”</p><p> </p><p>“Look,” Tran takes the glasses hanging from a chain around her neck and puts them on her nose, “I’m not a detective or an ME. I’m an ER surgeon. I can tell you the symptoms, and you work out your conclusions from there. But I can say that although we have our John Doe on the suicide watch that’s standard for hanging victims, I wouldn’t be opposed to a deputy posted outside his room, either.”</p><p> </p><p>Jody gathers herself enough to nod, shaking Tran’s hand and thanking the doctor for her help. Cas follows the action woodenly, hand too loose in Tran’s tight grip. He’s thinking of Green Eyes, their John Doe, alone and defenseless in a hospital room.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll tell Deputy Hanscum to schedule a guard post outside—?”</p><p> </p><p>“Room 204. And you two can come back tomorrow to talk to John Doe. He needs to rest today.”</p><p> </p><p>Jody nods again, and Cas tips his head at the women, walking away while they discuss how to get the deputies ID badges for watch duty, ignoring the desk nurse’s glare as he waits for Jody by the front door. The woman sitting in the corner is gone, swept back into the bowels of the hospital while they were talking to Tran. Cas wishes he were back there now, sitting next to Green Eyes’ bed, watching him breathe. He needs this man to be okay in a way he can’t quite describe, not even to himself.</p><p> </p><p>When Jody walks over to him, Cas is staring at the empty Styrofoam cup in his hands. She gently takes it away without a word, lobbing it in the nearest trashcan.</p><p> </p><p>“Cas?” He glances up at her. “You good?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.” Cas clears his throat. “Just, uh. Thinking.”</p><p> </p><p>Jody pats his shoulder, two hard slaps against his long-sleeved, buttoned-up work shirt. Shit. His jacket is probably with Green Eyes’ effects. He wiggles his toes in his boots. And so are his socks.</p><p> </p><p>“Come on, Cas,” Jody says, pushing him out the door as he contemplates a day of walking trails in sockless feet. Imagining the odor alone makes him shudder. “We need to take a closer look at our crime scene.”</p><p> </p><p>The drive back to the park office is quiet. Cas doesn’t tend to listen to music while he drives, and Jody seems content to make phone calls, speaking softly into her cell as she arranges her deputies for guard duty at the hospital and tells her adopted daughter, Alex, she’ll be home late.</p><p> </p><p>Bobby is at the office with a tour group when they pull up, and he waves them through, toward the trailheads. Cas gives him a sheepish smile, a <em>thank you</em> for taking over his workload. He can see the grunt he gets in return as they drive away.</p><p> </p><p>Jody parks at the end of the trailhead, following Cas up the hill. This hike with anyone not in good shape would be long and slow, but they make it to the pine in just over twenty minutes. Jody stops when she spots the rope, still dangling from the branch, cut crookedly at the edge.</p><p> </p><p>“That looks homemade,” she says with a frown, trudging past Cas to the tree. He walks behind her, stepping in her footprints. If she finds a reason to declare this a crime scene, he doesn’t want to be the one to mess it up. She halts just under the branch, gesturing uphill, away from the trail.</p><p> </p><p>“Any reason you or the medics might have walked up there?”</p><p> </p><p>“No,” Cas says, seeing her reason for asking before she says anything.</p><p> </p><p>The brush is trampled, beaten down, and there are footprints, several sets, leading from uphill toward the pine. Cas follows them with his eyes, sees the spot where someone fell in the dirt, where they were dragged over the ground, paw prints at the outer edges of a struggle. He pictures Green Eyes thrashing, trying to get away from multiple attackers.</p><p> </p><p>“I gotta call this in,” Jody says. “Looks like they’re backtracking—” she points at an area where the footprints splinter, uphill changing to downhill. “—and they didn’t go back the way they came. We need to get backup out here to follow the tracks.”</p><p> </p><p>Jody and Cas share a look of understanding — they’re both trackers, they know what this means.</p><p> </p><p>An attempted murder took place here.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Cas returns home late, well after sundown, tossing the keys to his old Lincoln Continental into the lopsided ceramic bowl on the kitchen counter. His niece Hael made it for him years ago, before her mother stopped speaking to Cas. She’d be a teenager now.</p><p> </p><p>His home is filled with remnants of his former life as a member of a large, close-knit family. The letter Michael wrote to congratulate Cas after he finished basic training is folded and tucked into the corner of his dresser mirror. Anna’s rosary hangs from the doorknob of his closet. A picture of Cas, Gabe and Luke sitting on the pier at Santa Monica as children occupies a prominent spot on his nightstand.</p><p> </p><p>They forgot him, but Cas can’t forget them.</p><p> </p><p>He shrugs off his coat — his backup rain jacket, his everyday coat is likely still at the hospital — and hangs it up by the door. His boots come off next, Cas shedding his clothes as he walks to his bedroom, trailed by a meowing cat who picks the worst moments to make her needs known.</p><p> </p><p>“Give me one moment, Gracie,” Cas says, falling back against the bed as he pulls off his pants.</p><p> </p><p>Ignorant of his request, or perhaps just purposefully antagonistic, Gracie jumps into his lap before he can pull his sweatpants on, digging her claws into the fabric of his boxers. Cas shoves her off his lap with a muted gasp of pain, and she glares at him from the floor.</p><p> </p><p>Gracie was a split-second purchase, bought two years ago from a woman on Craigslist who insisted the Japanese Bobtail was too high energy for any mere human to handle and needed to be sent straight to a kill shelter. Cas drove all the way to Pittsburgh to pick her up, finding her frightened and skinny and a desperate clawer. Their relationship has remained one-sided ever since. Cas feeds Gracie, bathes her, and cleans her litter box daily. In return she tolerates Cas, scratching him roughly once per day in thanks for saving her life.</p><p> </p><p>Once he’s dressed in his sleepwear, he heads for the kitchen, Gracie trotting behind him and crying plaintively. She has food and water, so he grabs the long string hanging around the neck of her toy mouse and drags it across the wood floor to the living room, where he can sit and type out a report of this day.</p><p> </p><p>Cas flicks his wrist to send the rope and mouse flying from one end of the room to the other as he sets up his laptop with his free hand. Gracie only plays for a few swipes before she embarrasses herself by leaping for the mouse and falling flat, slinking off to hide under the table and lick her wounds. Cas, left alone, starts up an email to the regional director.</p><p> </p><p>He relays the most important information — man found hanging, multiple tracks leading to and away from the scene, law enforcement unable to track them past the creek running down the mountain — and pauses before he writes out the formal request to end the email.</p><p> </p><p>“It is the belief of Ranger Singer, Sheriff Mills and myself that this incident is a case of attempted murder. We would like to request an FBI investigation.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas presses send before he can second-guess whether the prints they saw could have come from wayward campers. He knew this case was out of their jurisdiction the second he and Jody came to the same conclusion at the pine tree, but FBI investigations are expensive and the regional director hates bringing them in. </p><p> </p><p>Cas also hates the idea of Green Eyes’ case slipping out of his hands, headed up by some uptight government lackey who sees Green Eyes as a number, not a person whose face Cas held in his hands on that trail.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, I know <em>I’m</em> a government lackey,” he tells Gracie, who comes out of hiding to swat at his socked feet. “But rangers are the hippie type of government lackeys. We care about nature and people.”</p><p> </p><p>She stares up at him from his feet with a look that says <em>I don’t care about your insecurities, Castiel</em>. <em>Buy me wet food next time.</em></p><p> </p><p>He ignores Gracie’s judgmental eyes, nudging her gently off his feet so he can go to bed. He brushes his teeth perfunctorily, mind as blank as it can be after such a full day. When Cas crawls under the covers, Gracie is already waiting, prowling on the pillows until he lays his head down, upon which she curls up next to him.</p><p> </p><p>Cas stares at the ceiling, his cat’s body warming half his face, and he thinks about something Jody said as they attempted to follow the trail.</p><p> </p><p>“I worry sometimes,” she’d confided, after they reached the creek bed and watched the footprints disappear into the water, “that we’ve let people slip through the cracks out here. That we haven’t seen them, or we saw them and thought they chose to take their own life when really—”</p><p> </p><p><em>When really they’re someone’s victim</em>. Cas watches his fan spin, lazy and slow, throwing shadows across the room. He thinks of a warm summer night, electricity in the air, a woman’s screams. Someone slipping through the cracks, tripping into the brush, lost in the trees, falling into the gorges and rivers. It’s not hard to lose a body, alive or dead, in the wilderness.</p><p> </p><p><em>That’s not what happened this time</em>, Cas tries to tell himself. <em>You saved him this time.</em></p><p> </p><p>But he can already tell it’s going to be a nightmare kind of night.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Hello?” Cas is groggy, only half awake as he answers his phone, rolling over to avoid an irritated swat from Gracie. He checks his bedside alarm clock. 5:22. Almost time to get up anyway.</p><p> </p><p>“Cas, it’s Jody. Sorry for waking you.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not a problem.” Cas shuffles from the bedroom to the kitchen in his slippers, aimed at the coffee maker. “My alarm was going to go off in—” He eyes the kitchen clock. “—seven minutes, anyway.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, well, I wanted to give you a heads up. I just received a call from the Richmond FBI office. They’re sending an agent down this morning. She wants to meet with us at the hospital, 7 sharp. Can you get off, or—”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.” Cas listens to the coffee pot gurgle, leaning against the counter. Bobby might be a bit irritated by another morning running the office alone, but it’s not as if Cas can impede a federal investigation. And he hopes this invitation means they’ll find out more about Green Eyes’ condition. “I’ll be there.”</p><p> </p><p>After they hang up, Cas texts Bobby to let him know he’ll be late and nurses his mug on the back porch, watching the stars fade over the mountains. He bought this house for the view — it’s on the edge of town, backyard undisturbed by new development. His fence abuts an empty field that leads right to bottom of a mountain the locals nicknamed Beinn Diabhal — the Devil’s Mountain. Legend has it a group of Scottish immigrants perished on the mountain in a hard winter, and their mournful cries can be heard through the valley to this day. Cas knows it’s just the wind.</p><p> </p><p>But even though that same wind likes to blow mightily against his home, a little one-story, two-bedroom, early 1900s farmhouse with poor insulation, Cas loves watching Beinn Diabhal wake up — the sky changes from deep blue to light purple, the sun pushes over the highest ridge, and light falls on the trees like a blanket being pulled off someone in slumber, sending the night creatures scurrying to bed and the day creatures running off to find food. Sometimes, sitting here in the morning with Gracie beside him and the mountain in front of him, Cas thinks maybe he’s finally found a home to stay in.</p><p> </p><p>It’s been a long time since he’s felt that way, and the thought makes him itch under his skin. So no commitment yet, maybe. He finishes his coffee and heads inside to get dressed, leaving the mountain to its morning.</p><p> </p><p>At 6:54 a.m. Cas arrives at the hospital, parking the Continental in the back of the lot to leave room for families with real emergencies up front. Jody’s in the lobby already, talking to a petite woman with brown hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. The woman turns to Cas a beat after Jody does, lifting her lips in a slight smile as she nods at him.</p><p> </p><p>“Agent Leahy, this is Ranger Castiel Novak. He’s the one who discovered our John Doe. Cas, this is FBI Agent Eileen Leahy.</p><p> </p><p>As Cas shakes her hand, Leahy says, “To put this out there up front, I’m deaf. So if you want to talk, you’ll have to stay where I can read your lips.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh.” Cas doesn’t do a good job of hiding his surprise, though he tries to rein it in quickly. “All right. Nice to meet you, Agent Leahy.”</p><p> </p><p>She nods, a knowing half smile on her face. Whether it’s sincere or an aborted grimace at his shock, Cas doesn’t know. Leahy gestures toward the elevator.</p><p> </p><p>“Let’s go see our John Doe.”</p><p> </p><p>“He still hasn’t been ID’d?” Cas asks as the elevator door closes. The women exchange a look.</p><p> </p><p>“No,” Leahy says. “He’s not speaking, either, although his doctor says he’s stable and doesn’t appear to have permanent physical damage to the esophagus or vocal cords caused by the hanging, though it’s not always possible to spot mutism by visible injury.” She holds her hands up and signs along as she says, “That’s why I’m here.”</p><p> </p><p>“So you think he may be mute and he’ll sign to you?” Cas asks with interest.</p><p> </p><p>Leahy smiles again, and this time Cas recognizes the bitterness in it. “Apparently my superiors have finally found the job I’m perfectly suited for.”</p><p> </p><p>The elevator opens and Leahy walks out at a fast clip, leaving Jody and Cas to follow behind her. A nurse, seeing three people in uniform walking around outside of visiting hours, points to a door at the end of the hall without a word. As they approach the closed door, Cas rubs his sweaty palms on the legs of his pants.</p><p> </p><p>Leahy knocks twice, brisk and efficient, then swings the door open. Cas’s stomach swoops low as the man in the bed turns to the door and locks eyes with him.</p><p> </p><p>Cas’s siblings, when they still deigned to speak with him, told him often he stared too much. “It’s embarrassing,” Anna would hiss, pinching his knee when she caught him staring at a classmate or a boy in the park or the man in the Coca Cola commercials on TV. It took him far too long to realize he was being punished not for poor etiquette, but for his obvious attraction to the same gender. When Jody clears her throat, she presumably does so because it is poor etiquette to stare unflinchingly at a man who was nearly murdered the day before. Cas startles, his eyes dropping to Green Eyes’ throat, which might be a worse place to look. It’s still red and raw, bruises forming a ring under his Adam’s apple.</p><p> </p><p>“Cas?” Jody says. “Did you want to introduce yourself?”</p><p> </p><p>Cas forces his eyes to focus on a point behind Green Eyes’ shoulder so he won’t be staring at those eyes or his freckled nose or the confused furrow between his brows.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m Cas Novak,” he says to the pillow Green Eyes is propped up against. “I’m the park ranger who—”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Who found you hanging and cut you down and held your face in my hands and talked to you until the medics arrived and was terrified you’d die on me.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“He saved your life,” Jody says.</p><p> </p><p>Cas sees Green Eyes shift in his periphery, and he glances at his face, a quick once-over to determine that no, Green Eyes is not going to verbally respond. His eyes are glassy, lethargic with shock and sedatives, and when he glances at Cas there’s no recognition there. Cas feels an acute stab of disappointment, then shame. He doesn’t need to be thanked for saving this man’s life.</p><p> </p><p>“I’d like to ask you a few questions, alright?” Leahy says, signing as she speaks. “Do you use ASL?”</p><p> </p><p>Green Eyes blinks, slowly, and Cas stares at him again, the dark circles under his eyes and his long lashes. He holds up a hand and makes what Cas thinks is a single sign, holding up two fingers and pressing them against his thumb. Leahy purses her lips.</p><p> </p><p>“Right,” she says, disbelief in her voice. Cas glances at Jody, confused, and she shrugs. Neither of them know ASL. “Okay then, simple questions. Did you do this to yourself?”</p><p> </p><p>Green Eyes’ lips part, but no sound comes out. For a moment, Cas sees something in his eyes, something beyond the cloud of drugs and weariness.</p><p> </p><p>He raises his hand in a fist and moves it up and down, as if nodding. Cas doesn’t need to know ASL to recognize a “yes.”</p><p> </p><p>“No,” Leahy says. “We know you didn’t. They saw the other tracks.”</p><p> </p><p>Green Eyes tenses, as much as he can with a neck brace and an IV trapping him to a hospital bed. Caught in a lie, with nowhere to escape to, his eyes dart about like an animal corned by predators. His heart rate, counted out by the monitor above the bed, begins to climb.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you know who did this to you?”</p><p> </p><p>Green Eyes looks at Cas, pleading, as if Cas might save him from this, too. Cas wants to say something, to tell Leahy to back off, but this isn’t his investigation. Green Eyes isn’t his witness, and he can’t do anything to jeopardize his place in this room, to risk his ability to make sure Green Eyes gets out of this alright.</p><p> </p><p>When he gets no response from Cas, Green Eyes stares down at his blanket-covered lap and makes the first sign again.</p><p> </p><p>Leahy huffs. “Did you see them?”</p><p> </p><p>The same sign.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you know why you were targeted?”</p><p> </p><p>The same sign again.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay.” Leahy pinches her nose. Cas wonders if she’s unused to interrogations, if this is the first job her superiors have assigned her. “Well, we can let you rest. But first, do you have an emergency contact?”</p><p> </p><p>Green Eyes makes the same sign, sharper this time.</p><p> </p><p>“Your name, then?” Her frustration is bleeding into her voice. “So we can stop calling you John Doe?”</p><p> </p><p>Green Eyes leans back and closes his eyes, signaling the end of their odd, mostly one-sided conversation. Jody grabs Leahy’s elbow before she can say anything else, gently pulling her out of the room, murmuring something to her in the hall, too low for Cas to hear.</p><p> </p><p>Cas stays, though he couldn’t say why, trapped between the bed and the door, unsure of his welcome and yet unwilling to leave until he’s certain Green Eyes knows he’s safe.</p><p> </p><p>“Uh, excuse me,” he says quietly, then cringes at the awkward politeness of his tone. His siblings used to mock him for that, too — the way he never knew the right words to say or the jokes everyone else seemed to know, the way he always aimed for stilted kindness over the sharp wittiness the rest of them preferred.</p><p> </p><p>But Green Eyes opens his eyes, warily staring back at Cas.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t have any questions,” Cas says, hurrying to assuage his fears. “I just wanted to tell you I’m glad you’re alright.”</p><p> </p><p>Green Eyes nods with a measure of uncertainty, as if he’s waiting for another line of questioning regardless of what Cas says.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you, uh...” Somehow Cas has moved closer to the bed, standing near Green Eyes’ arm. “Do you need anything?”</p><p> </p><p>Green Eyes holds up the bed remote, complete with nurse call button, as if to say <em>I could get anything I need with this</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh. Yes, of course.” Cas clears his throat. “Well, I suppose I’ll let you rest.”</p><p> </p><p>He’s turning to go when Green Eyes grabs his arm, right above the wrist. Cas feels the heat of his hand, the strength of his grip, the calluses marking a workingman’s lifestyle. His pulse jumps under Green Eyes’ index finger. Cas’s throat is dry again.</p><p> </p><p>Green Eyes pulls him closer to the bed, releasing Cas’s wrist to take his hand. He turns it over, palm up, and Cas watches, transfixed, as Green Eyes presses his thumb to its center, firmly pinning Cas’s hand in place between his thumb and his palm. Green Eyes begins to move his thumb in a slow, steady line, across, then down. He lifts his thumb and presses it down again, drawing something else. It takes Cas a beat to catch on.</p><p> </p><p>T — H — A — N — K — S.</p><p> </p><p>Cas knew the word once Green Eyes started the “N,” but he lets Green Eyes finish, guessing this is something he might need to see through.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re welcome,” he says, expecting Green Eyes to drop his hand. He doesn’t. He holds it, those bright eyes on Cas, curious and almost alight now he’s not under Leahy’s scrutiny. Cas wants to ask him why he tried to lie, why he’s covering for his would-be murderers, but he doesn’t want Green Eyes to pull away. “I’ll check in on you later...”</p><p> </p><p>Cas trails off, leaving a blank in the air to be filled. He’s surprised when Green Eyes presses his thumb down again, writing out another word. A name.</p><p> </p><p>D — E — A —N.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Because Cas needs to go into work so Bobby doesn’t lose his mind, they all end up holding an impromptu case meeting at Cas’s desk, surrounded by Smokey the Bear posters and “Hiking Safety 101” pamphlets. Cas scrambles to push unfilled paperwork into his overflowing file drawers, moving a stack of camping permits under his desk so Jody can take a seat.</p><p> </p><p>Bobby pulls his desk chair over for Leahy and leans against the wall, scowl in place. He’s not a huge fan of federal agents, even though he and Cas are technically federal agents themselves. Cas gets the feeling Bobby likes to pretend he’s a mountain man defending the wilds from hapless city dwellers, rather than an underpaid U.S. government employee whose main job is to write tickets for unauthorized burning and to kick pot smokers out of the campground bathrooms.</p><p> </p><p>Leahy is unperturbed by Bobby’s overcompensating grumpiness. She leans forward, elbows on her knees, and says, “I’d like you all to be consultants on this case.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas expected Leahy to ask for a guided tour of the park, information on the town. He thought she might allow him to speak with Dean again, since Dean felt uncomfortable in her presence. He didn’t expect her to so openly ask for their help.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know the area,” she says plainly. “I don’t know the people. You do. And we already know our John D— Excuse me, <em>Dean</em>, trusts Novak more than anyone else. I want to solve this; I want to bring these people to justice. I could use your help.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas watches Bobby shrug, disgruntled but giving in anyway. Jody says, “Yes, of course. My office would be glad to help with whatever you need.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you.” Leahy leans back, comfortable now she’s assured of completing her first goal. “So, let me lay out what I have so far. Dean’s fingerprints don’t turn up anything in any of our databases. He doesn’t match any missing persons report in the area. He doesn’t appear to be physically mute, but he’s not talking. He does know at least basic sign language, though he said he didn’t.” Cas remembers Leahy’s disbelief after Dean’s first sign. “The lying concerns me. What do you think, Sheriff?”</p><p> </p><p>“It concerns me, too.” Jody purses her lips. “I’d say it looks like he found himself on the wrong side of some criminal organization and he’s no fan of the law, but we don’t exactly have active mafia around here that I know of. Lotta drug runners, though.”</p><p> </p><p>“He didn’t look like a drug user,” Cas interjects. “No track marks or sores.”</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t have to use drugs to push ‘em, Cas,” Bobby says, a note of pity in his voice. Fantastic, everyone can see how attached Cas is to Dean already. Cas scowls at his feet.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve taken that under consideration,” Leahy says. “He could also be running from an abusive situation. Those victims are often hesitant to give up their abusers.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas glances up at Leahy, and she gives him a tight smile. He knows he’s not seeing this rationally, but he hopes her theory is closer to the mark. He doesn’t like to think of Dean as some runaway member of a violent group of criminals.</p><p> </p><p>“Whatever the situation may be,” Leahy continues, “I’d like to keep this under wraps as much as possible. I know the media already reported a suicide attempt in the park, but I’d like to keep them in the dark about the attempted murder part. I don’t want our perps to run.”</p><p> </p><p>“I can handle the media,” Jody says. “The editor of the local paper is a good friend. She’ll understand if I have to withhold details.”</p><p> </p><p>“Great. Singer, Novak, if you think of any insight on the park or the surrounding land that might be useful, feel free to call me. Novak, I’d like you to keep visiting Dean. It doesn’t matter if he talks to me, so long as he talks to someone.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas ignores the way his stomach flips. “I’ll do that.”</p><p> </p><p>Leahy stands, pushing her chair back over to Bobby’s desk. She brushes her hair back, tightening her ponytail as she says, “I’ve got some ideas for creating leads to follow up on. Sheriff, if you wouldn’t mind walking me out. I’ve got another request for you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure thing.” Jody pats Cas’s shoulder and gives Bobby a one-armed hug as she follows Leahy out the door. “Bye boys!”</p><p> </p><p>Bobby grunts and Cas waves as the women leave, their voices and footsteps fading as they walk to their cars. Bobby stays where he’s at, leaning against the wall and looming over Cas.</p><p> </p><p>“What?” Cas asks, uncomfortable with the way Bobby’s eyes have narrowed, his bushy brows crawling together as he stares down at Cas.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t get too wrapped up in this,” Bobby says after a pause. “Just ‘cause you saved him don’t mean he’s some saint.”</p><p> </p><p>“It doesn’t mean he’s a drug dealer, either,” Cas snaps, causing Bobby’s eyebrows to shoot up toward his hairline. “And even if he were, he would still deserve to be saved.”</p><p> </p><p>Bobby holds out his palms, placating. “Cas, I agree. I’m only saying — I know how you get about this sort of thing.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas once told Bobby, over a bottle of whiskey and a pepperoni pizza, the real reason he left the military. He also told him the real reason he left his first park. Bobby knows more about Cas than his own family does. Bobby probably sees his soul, how small and bitter and burning it must be. All the people he’s let down, everyone who’s died because of him written in black across it. Bobby knows Cas’s deepest secrets, the dark paths Cas retreads late at night, and of course he’d worry this is bound to follow the same course.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s different,” Cas says, and Bobby’s not the only one he wants to convince. “This isn’t the same situation in the slightest.”</p><p> </p><p>Bobby knocks his knuckles against Cas’s desk as he moves away, off to answer the tingle of the bell in the front office.</p><p> </p><p>“Just be careful, son,” he says, and unlike usual, Cas bristles at the diminutive nickname.</p><p> </p><p>He’s not a child. He knows what he’s getting into. He knew he’d gained a new responsibility — a second chance — from the moment Dean’s eyes cracked open under that horrid tree.</p><p> </p><p>Cas is not going to fuck it up this time.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Cas stops by the hospital after work the next day, bypassing the front desk and heading straight for the elevator. The nurses on Dean’s floor wave him by, too busy to stop and chat, and Deputy Donna Hanscum greets him with a bright smile as he reaches Room 204.</p><p> </p><p>“Heya Cas!” Donna has never known the meaning of an inside voice. “Jodes said you might be stopping by.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hello.” Cas resists the urge to rudely peer around her into Dean’s room. He’s horrendous at small talk, but Donna expects a greeting of some sort, so he asks, “How are... things?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, just fine.” Donna leans against the doorframe, settling in to discuss her day. Cas stuffs his hands in his pockets, prepared for a long delay before he can get to Dean. “Jody’s been real vague about what exactly it is we’re guarding against. Can’t say as I blame her, seeing how Doug always gets a big mouth around the press, but I’d sure like to know why a John Doe gets a police escort.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas decides to ignore her obvious prying and settles on a less sensitive subject. “How is Doug? Are you two still, uh—?”</p><p> </p><p>Donna gives him an <em>I know what you’re doing</em> look, but she says, “Yeah, though I don’t know how long that’ll last if I get that job back home.” Cas had no idea she’d applied for a job in Minnesota, but he nods along as if he’s caught up on the local gossip. “I told him he could always move with me — he’s from up North, too, so it’s not like he’s not used to the cold — but he keeps hemming and hawing about it. And I told him, I said, ‘Doug. I am not giving up my dream job for you.’ He might have resented that. Do you think he resented that?”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh,” Cas says inelegantly. “I don’t have much relationship experience, Donna. I’m afraid I don’t—”</p><p> </p><p>“But I meant it,” Donna continues, as if she never asked Cas a question at all. “A chance to get back to Hibbing, live in a place where people would support me if I ran for sheriff — that’s the dream, Cas. Doug knows I’m not in for settling in the Appalachians and raising two-point-five kids. That’s just not me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, you should follow your dreams.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas inches toward the door, but Donna says, “I know! I’ve been completely honest with him every step of the way. I let my ex hold me back, and I’m not doing that this time around, no sir.”</p><p> </p><p>“Good, Donna. You shouldn’t let anyone hold you back. Now—”</p><p> </p><p>“Cas, you’re such a sweetheart,” she says, and Cas pauses. “Listening to me go on about my relationship problems, coming to see this poor guy. Y’know, I have a cousin who’s single...”</p><p> </p><p>Donna trails off and waggles her eyebrows in a seductive suggestion, and Cas manages to get through the door to Dean’s room.</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you so much, Donna, but I’m not interested in dating anyone right now.”</p><p> </p><p>“No problem!” she says cheerily as he shuts the door. “Let me know if you change your mind!”</p><p> </p><p>When Cas turns to the bed, Dean is awake and looking right at him, a smirk on his lips.</p><p> </p><p>“What?” Cas asks, flustered seeing Dean so much more aware and, well — healthy, without all the tubes and braces around him. He’s leaning against the pillows, a cup of chocolate pudding in one hand and a spoon in the other. Dean is less pale today, and the bruises on his neck and arms don’t contrast so overwhelmingly with his lightly tanned skin. He lifts his eyebrows in a silent question, sliding his eyes toward the door. Still not talking.</p><p> </p><p>“I meant it,” Cas says, on the defensive. “My job keeps me from seeing anyone.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean spreads his arms open with a cheeky grin, as if to say <em>you’re seeing me</em>. Cas rolls his eyes, but he’s hit by a wave of fondness. Bobby was right — he does get too attached too quickly. He doesn’t let the old man’s voice in his head stop him from pulling up a chair next to Dean, though.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re different,” Cas tells Dean, delighted to see his smile grow.</p><p> </p><p>He seems so improved, and just two days removed from near death his happiness is a miracle. Cas hates to dash it, but Leahy gave him a set of questions to ask. He promised her he’d try to get some answers from Dean as thanks for her letting him continue to help with the case. Cas touches the phone in his jacket pocket, the text with Leahy’s instructions heavy on his mind. Dean notices his face fall, and his smile drops.</p><p> </p><p>“Dean, I need to know your full name.”</p><p> </p><p>Every shred of the vibrant and teasing Dean Cas just saw vanishes. Dean slouches, shoulders falling in on him as if a weight has been dropped on his back, head down and tense. His fingers tighten around the empty pudding cup and until the plastic begins to pop, the sound loud and accusing in the quiet hospital room.</p><p> </p><p>“Dean,” Cas says, trying again. “I want to help you. It would help us to know your full name so we can contact your family.”</p><p> </p><p>With unnerving speed and accuracy, Dean drops his plastic spoon and grabs Cas’s arm, pulling it toward his chest. Caught off balance, Cas follows the motion to the edge of his seat, his torso pressed against the sheets as Dean writes N-O.</p><p> </p><p>When he’s done, Dean’s fingers curl around Cas’s hand, pressing into the lifeline on Cas’s palm before he lets go. Cas draws his arm back slowly, unsure if Dean will need it again. Dean stares at him, as unflinching as Cas ever is, willing him to understand. Cas doesn’t.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t understand why Dean is so frightened, why he won’t speak, or why he won’t give up his attackers. He doesn’t understand his own fascination with Dean, or the protective streak he feels toward him that keeps him from pushing Dean to answer like Leahy would want. Bobby would call it Cas’s savior complex, and he’d probably be right.</p><p> </p><p>Cas drags his own fingers across the palm where Dean wrote his name, his thanks, where Dean told him “no.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve seen a lot of things in parks,” he says, and Dean glances up at him, curious at the change in subject. “I’ve been a park ranger for a long time, about a decade. I’ve caught at least five separate couples having sex, which isn’t so odd for this line of work, but I can’t imagine it’s a standard job hazard for others. Certainly no one ever told me about it during school. The amount of used condoms I’ve seen could fill a museum, make an exhibit called ‘Cas’s Worst Nightmare.’”</p><p> </p><p>The corner of Dean’s mouth edges up, so Cas continues, “I once found, and I kid you not, a tower, made entirely of dirt and animal feces, stacked up ten feet high. Right off a trail. Completely man-made, and no reason for it whatsoever. It collapsed while we were inspecting it, and my partner at the time caught a face full of cow dung.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean laughs. It’s a light sound, a quick spurt of breath, but it confirms two things Cas already expected — one, Dean isn’t completely mute, and two, he looks beautiful when he laughs. Cas quickly turns back to his hands.</p><p> </p><p>“You might wonder where the cow dung came from, and the answer is I have no idea. This park was nowhere near farmland. It was imported shit.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean laughs again, and Cas smiles at him, quick and easy. He has oddly delicate features for a man his size — long, dark eyelashes, high cheekbones, thin nose, full lips — but just from the quick burst of a laugh Cas can tell he’d have a deep voice, should he ever choose to use it.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, and it rained fish once.” Dean gives him a <em>you’re shitting me</em> look, and Cas insists, “No, no, listen. I used to work at park with a massive lake, and I was out doing boat patrol one afternoon when, for about ten to fifteen seconds, my boat got hit with these white, fleshy chunks falling from the sky.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean shudders.</p><p> </p><p>“I was, of course, astonished when I picked up one of the chunks and saw scales. They were tiny little pieces of dead fish. One piece still had an eyeball in it. So I steered my boat back toward the dock, and I asked my superior what the hell was happening. He told me he’d heard of something like this before — it was buzzards. When they get spooked, they throw up. There was a flock hanging around the lake, and something must have scared them into puking fish meat all over my boat.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean rears back, face scrunched up in disgust. <em>Ew.</em></p><p> </p><p>“I agree,” Cas says solemnly. “Anyway. All of this to say, I’ve seen a lot of strange things in parks, but...” He hesitates before deciding to go all in. “I’ve never seen a miracle until I found you.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s mouth opens and closes, and Cas can see the gears in his head turning as he processes Cas’s admission. Cas could explain, should explain — <em>I have messed up so many times but I was able to get you down, to stay with you until you were safe, and I don’t know what it means but it means something </em>— but he lets Dean decide how to react without comment. Dean gives him an inscrutable look before reaching over to take Cas’s hand again, gentle this time, pulling it toward his lap.</p><p> </p><p>Dean waits for Cas to look up, holding his eyes as he presses his thumb down once in the center of Cas’s palm.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m paying attention, Dean.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean writes D-A-N-G-E-R.</p><p> </p><p>Cas takes his hand and grips it, squeezing once. Dean lets go first.</p><p> </p><p>“Whatever it is Dean, we can protect you. Donna’s outside right now; you’re safe.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean shakes his head. Frustrated, Cas scans the room for anything to write, paper and pen for Dean to put his complete thoughts down on. Simply writing “danger” is not going to work. Cas is about to pull out the notes app on his phone when Dr. Tran sweeps in, plastering on her professional smile when she sees Cas and Dean leaning close together.</p><p> </p><p>“Ranger Novak.” Cas can’t quite make out whether her tone of voice is sharp or simply formal. “I need to discuss Dean’s release paperwork and insurance coverage. I’ll have to ask you to step out.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right.” Cas starts to stand, reluctant, but Dean grabs him by the arm and pushes him down into the chair. He looks pointedly at Dr. Tran, who sighs.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, all right then, if you don’t mind.” She places her clipboard against her hip, not consulting it as she says, “Dean, I’ve looked over your latest numbers, and you’re good to leave us tomorrow. I’ll give you a full list of what to expect during home recovery at the discharge desk, but tonight I wanted to make sure you have somewhere to go home to. Do you?”</p><p> </p><p>Dean swallows, shaking his head. Tran is clearly expecting that answer.</p><p> </p><p>“Since indigent healthcare is covering your medical expenses, you’re eligible to stay at the nearest homeless shelter for the next month. I can call them for you and arrange a bed—“</p><p> </p><p>“He’s staying with me.” Dean never let go of Cas’s arm, and his grip tightens when Cas says, “I have an extra bedroom; it will be fine.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean squeezes Cas’s forearm. He feels the skin shift under Dean’s thumb, rubbing together like those horrid “rug burns” his siblings used to give him, where they’d grab his arm and twist until the skin felt like it was burning. Cas hisses in pain, and Dean immediately turns him loose.</p><p> </p><p>“Dean,” Cas starts, and Dean shakes his head vehemently. “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t be alone, and I’m not letting you go to a homeless shelter when I have an unused bed.”</p><p> </p><p>Tran clears her throat, reminding both men she’s still in the room.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m going to let you work this out amongst yourselves,” she says. “But if I need to call the shelter, you know where to find me.”<br/><br/>As soon as Tran leaves, Dean pulls Cas’s palm up and begins to write D-A-N-G-E-R again, pressing down hard enough to change the color of the skin as if he can leave behind a permanent reminder of his message. He points at Cas’s palm, then at Cas.</p><p> </p><p>“For me,” Cas says. “It’s dangerous for me.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean lets go of his hands and leans back against the pillows, satisfied. Cas thinks of bringing out his phone so they can actually discuss this, but Dean’s eyes are beginning to droop, the telltale signs of a put-off exhaustion creeping back in.</p><p> </p><p>“I wasn’t always a park ranger,” Cas says, Dean’s tired eyes on him. “I was in the Army for four years. I was deployed twice. I know how to take care of myself.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s fingers twitch, but he doesn’t try to take Cas’s hand.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not leaving you with nowhere to go. I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning.”</p><p> </p><p>With that, Cas reaches over and pats Dean on the shoulder, lingering a touch longer than he should to feel Dean slump under his hand, giving in. It’s difficult to leave the room, to leave Dean — like walking through molasses, every step forward a struggle — but Cas pushes on. He refrains from looking back. He’s not giving Dean a chance to change his mind.</p><p> </p><p>He forgot about Donna.</p><p> </p><p>“He’s quiet, that one,” she says, watching Cas carefully as he closes the door. “Seems scared.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas leans against the wall, wondering how much she’s picked up on. Many people mistake Donna’s cheery exterior for a bone-deep ditziness, but those people are idiots. Cas knows she’s Jody’s chief deputy for a reason.</p><p> </p><p>“Cas,” Donna says, voice low, “I’ve been keeping an eye on him for two days now. He shies away from touch, won’t speak even though the doctors say he can. He’s got this look in his eyes sometimes, where they keep darting to the door all wild-like.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve noticed similar things.” Cas thinks of the first time he formally met Dean, how trapped he looked.</p><p> </p><p>“I know Jodes’ theory,” Donna says. “She could be right. But I also know what victims of abuse look like, and that one—” She points to Dean’s closed door. “—is a poster child for a runaway who got caught.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas reaches for the edge of his jacket sleeve, tugging it down to cover the raised scars along his wrists. He wonders if Donna read him like she read Dean or if he’s been shelved so long she can’t see past the dust on the cover to get to the story underneath.</p><p> </p><p>“I tend to agree with you,” he says, keeping his fingers curled around the edge of his sleeve. “But I’m not the head investigator.”</p><p> </p><p>“No, but you are the one he responds to. He wouldn’t hardly look at that FBI agent when she came by earlier. I think he likes you.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas blushes as he pulls his keys out of his pocket, wanting to get out of this conversation before he says something fumbling and idiotic like, “I like him, too.”</p><p> </p><p>Donna takes pity on Cas and waves him off, saying “I’ll keep an eye on him, don’t you worry!” as he goes.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Cas is off work the next day, and he spends the early morning cleaning the guest room (slash office) from top to bottom. He washes the sheets, vacuums the cat hair off the floor, and dusts his desk and blinds. He moves his laptop and his books into his own bedroom, leaving behind a few novels he hopes Dean might enjoy. Cas shoves the boxes stacked haphazardly in the closet to one corner so Dean will have room to hang up any clothes they buy him, and in the process he locates the dried bones of a mouse Gracie dragged back to the guest room and ate. He disinfects the entire room with Lysol.</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s discharge is set for 10 a.m., and Cas reaches the hospital at 9:30. He’s outside of visiting hours, but no one seems to care. There’s no deputy at the door to Room 204, but Cas spots the back of Leahy’s FBI-labeled jacket before he’s made it down the hall. She’s standing at the foot of Dean’s bed, in the middle of a one-sided argument.</p><p> </p><p>“Dean.” Her tone is clipped, impatient. “I can promise you law enforcement protection. You don’t have to say a word; I’m not asking you to speak. I just need you to write down names.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas spent last night looking up basic signs, and he recognizes the forceful gesture Dean makes as a “no,” every bit as pointed as the “no” he wrote with his thumb on Cas’s palm.</p><p> </p><p>“Why?” Leahy signs and speaks, and she gestures to the bed where a small blackboard rests on Dean’s lap, unused. “They tried to kill you. You don’t need to protect them.”</p><p> </p><p>The moment Dean sees Cas over Leahy’s shoulder, his face changes from angry to relieved. Cas’s palms go clammy as Dean looks at him, ignoring Leahy in favor of writing “Hey” on the whiteboard and showing it to Cas.</p><p> </p><p>“Hello, Dean.” Cas ignores the frustrated huff from Leahy. He understands her ire, but he’s here for Dean, not her. “I’m a little early, sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean erases the whiteboard with a swipe of his hand, turning his palm blue. He writes “I have nothing else scheduled this morning” and holds it up with a cheeky grin.</p><p> </p><p>“I can take a hint,” Leahy says, and Cas spares a second to shoot her an apologetic glance. “Castiel, I’ll be in touch. Dean...” Leahy pauses, gathering herself, and when she speaks again, she’s calmer. “I realize this is a difficult situation. I promise I only want to help. When you’re ready to talk — or write — to me, let Castiel know.”</p><p> </p><p>She inclines her head in a slight nod, a curt goodbye. Leahy leaves the room with a swish of her jacket, her footsteps echoing loudly in the hallway as she walks away.</p><p> </p><p>Left alone, Cas and Dean stare at each other, awkward. Dean fiddles with the whiteboard in his lap, and Cas watches his fingers play with marker scum left behind at the edges. With Leahy gone, Cas sees Dean’s boldness fall away, folded and tucked away in some corner, the uncertainty and apprehension brought back out for display. Cas doesn’t know whether he’s grateful Dean isn’t hiding his fear from him or disappointed Dean’s brashness is a mask and not a sign of genuine comfort.</p><p> </p><p>Before Cas can say anything, a band of nurses descends upon the room, chattering around Dean as they bring in a set of clothes — sweatpants, socks, a t-shirt and a hoodie — they lay at the edge of his bed. One nurse shoos Cas away, and he exits with a backward glance at Dean, small in the hospital bed surrounded by people, nurses pulling out his IV and asking questions he won’t answer.</p><p> </p><p>Cas waits in the hallway, pacing a short path between Dean’s door and the next room. He doesn’t feel the same urgent sense of danger Dean does, but then again, he doesn’t know what Dean knows. Cas meant what he said — he can take care of himself — but he worries over whether he can take care of Dean when he doesn’t know who or what he’s protecting Dean from.</p><p> </p><p>The nurses leave Dean’s room shortly thereafter. “He’s changing,” one says to Cas, turning her head to the side and appraising him. Cas shifts uncomfortably under the attention. “He needs more clothes, more food and someone to guide him through the process of filing for indigent healthcare. That gonna be you?”</p><p> </p><p>Cas nods, and the nurse says, “Good,” shoving a plastic bag into Cas’s hand. “These are the clothes he came in with. You can give them to the FBI lady for evidence or keep them or whatever you need to do.”</p><p> </p><p>The bag crinkles in his hands as Cas turns it over. There’s nothing inside except for Cas’s socks and jacket and Dean’s worn jeans and a pair of boxers, all the possessions he had on him when Cas found him hanging in the forest. Cas’s stomach roils at the memory the bloodied jeans provoke, and he rolls the bag up as tight as he can, stuffing it under his armpit as Dean exits his room, hospital-issued clothes on and whiteboard in hand. His eyes land on the bag, but his face gives away nothing as he walks to the elevator.</p><p> </p><p>Cas follows him to the elevator and down to the discharge desk in silence. The discharge nurse takes Dean’s ID bracelet off, raising her eyebrows at the last name ‘Doe’ and lack of an insurance number, but she hands Dean his papers and his bill anyway. Cas takes it upon himself to explain the indigent situation to the nurse, whose name tag says Tessa, and she allows them to leave with only the barest information filled out on Dean’s discharge sheet: a name, Dean Smith, and a birthday, February 25, 1981. So he’s 27 — if that’s even his real birthday.</p><p> </p><p>Dean sits in the car with his hands folded over the whiteboard in his lap, watching the town fly by through the windows. He’s holding his shoulders upright, tense; his eyes scanning the area. Cas wonders if Dean has a military background. Now Cas has seen Dean up and about, he’s noticed Dean holds himself like an Army man, and he’d be the perfect age for a 9/11 recruit. Cas is tempted to pry, but he manages to keep his mouth shut. He knows all too well the hidden baggage that comes with time spent in the service.</p><p> </p><p>“I live just outside of town,” Cas says, mostly to break the silence. “I have to apologize for the age of the house; sometimes the pipes take a while to warm, and it’s always drafty. It’s peaceful, though. Good view of the mountains.”</p><p> </p><p>He feels Dean’s eyes on him as he says, “The guest bedroom has functioned as my office, but I’ve cleaned it up. Feel free to make yourself at home once we get there. I don’t have cable or anything, but there are, uh, books. If you like to read. Oh, and I have a cat, Gracie. She’s an incorrigible asshole, but she’ll probably leave you alone.”</p><p> </p><p>There’s a sharp squeaking noise as Dean writes something on the whiteboard.Cas takes his eyes off the road to glance over at it. “Allergic.”</p><p> </p><p>“Not an issue. I’ll keep her in my room until I can pick up some antihistamines for you.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean doesn’t respond.</p><p> </p><p>They pull up to house, and Cas tries not to think about what a mess it must seem to Dean’s eyes. The paint is peeling along the doorframe, the yard is an unmowed mess, and one of the shutters hanging outside the living room window is crooked. Cas has a list of things he needs to fix, but has spent no time or effort on actually completing that list. Dean doesn’t seem to notice the house’s general state of disrepair, watching Cas fumble with his keys without comment or gesture.</p><p> </p><p>Once they cross into the entryway, Gracie is immediately upon them, meowing her displeasure at Cas. Dean backs away from her with trepidation.</p><p> </p><p>“Here.” Cas scoops her up, cringing when her claws dig into his forearm. “I’m going to feed her and put her in my room. If you’ll follow us down the hall, your room is the second door on the right. First one is the bathroom if you need it.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s footsteps are barely audible on the creaky hardwood floor as he follows Cas down the hall. Cas deposits an unimpressed Gracie in front of her food bowl in the master bath, coming back to find Dean standing still in the middle of the guest bedroom, whiteboard clutched to his chest.</p><p> </p><p>“I vacuumed and dusted, so hopefully you won’t find too many cat hairs.” Dean twists his neck to look at Cas, guarded and silent. “Sheets are clean, too. I’ve got extra toiletries in the hall bath, and we can go to town and get you more clothes soon.”</p><p> </p><p>No response. Not a nod or even a blink. Cas’s lips twists as she tries to think of a way to get Dean to open up again.</p><p> </p><p>“Dean,” he says quietly, “you know it’s safe here, right? Dr. Tran and Agent Leahy are the only ones who know you came home with me.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean swallows and looks at the bed, covered in an old quilt Cas bought at the consignment store downtown. It smells permanently of mothballs, but he liked the pattern of flowers sewn using different colored fabrics. It’s a grandmotherly thing to own, and he almost apologizes for it, but then Dean pulls the marker off the top of the whiteboard.</p><p> </p><p>He writes slowly, carefully, and turns the board to face Cas. In blocked letters it says, “They’ll know I’m alive. They’ll come for me through you.” The words are capitalized, slanted and scrawled in a shaky confession, a testament to the fear they invoke. Dean grips the whiteboard tight as he waits for Cas’s response.</p><p> </p><p>“I can handle it.” They stare at each other. “I know what it is to run. Trust me when I say I can help you.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean drops the whiteboard to his side, deflating in defeat. He may be stubborn, but so is Cas, and Cas is determined to win this argument. There’s no other option. To lose would be to let Dean out onto the street, where those who hurt him could find him much more easily.</p><p> </p><p>“If you tell me who <em>they</em> are—”</p><p> </p><p>Cas realizes his mistake as soon as the words leave his mouth, but it’s too late. Dean drops the whiteboard to the floor, hopping on the bed and rolling over to face the wall. Conversation over. Foot-in-mouth 1, Castiel 0.</p><p> </p><p>When Cas leaves he keeps the door open a crack. Dean doesn’t come out the rest of the day.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Like he did for both lunch and dinner yesterday, Cas leaves a plate of food just inside the guest room door for Dean’s breakfast — toast and butter with a glass of water. He sees the other glasses sitting on his desk, half empty, next to two stacked plates. At least Dean’s eating, although from Cas’s point of view he doesn’t appear to have moved out from under the covers at all.</p><p> </p><p>“I have to go to work today,” Cas tells the lump that is Dean. “I left my cell phone number by the house phone in case you need for me anything. There’s bread and lunch meat in the fridge.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean rolls over, red eyes poking out from under the quilt. He pushes up against the headboard so Cas can see his whole face. Cas feels an odd clench in his chest at the sight of Dean, exhausted and weary, the bruises along his neck yellowing.</p><p> </p><p><em>Patience</em>, he reminds himself. <em>You have to have patience.</em></p><p> </p><p>“I won’t be far,” Cas says. “The park office is about a fifteen minute drive from here. I can, uh — I can pick up burgers or pizza on the way back. If you want.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s like holding his breath underwater, waiting for a response. When Dean reaches down to the floor Cas almost expects him to write “I’m leaving.” Instead, Dean writes, “Either is fine,” erases it, and writes, “I’m sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>“Dean, you don’t have to be sorry.” Cas shifts in the doorway, uncomfortable. “I shouldn’t have pushed it.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean taps at the board.</p><p> </p><p>“All right, I’ll forgive you if that’s what you want.” Cas gives him a weak smile. “I’ll see you tonight?”</p><p> </p><p>The <em>please be here when I get back</em> goes unsaid, but it’s obvious to both of them. Dean hesitates before giving Cas a thumbs up, hand just poking out from under the quilt. Cas takes what he can get.</p><p> </p><p>Bobby is waiting for Cas at the park office, arms crossed over his chest and a particularly grumpy set to his mouth. Even his whiskers look ruffled.</p><p> </p><p>Cas takes his time dumping his bag at his desk, taking off his coat and turning on his computer before he looks at his boss.</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“Heard from Jody that you took that boy home with you.” Bobby manages to make it sound like a scandal, as if this is 1950 and Cas brought his daughter home from the drive-in movies ten minutes past curfew.</p><p> </p><p>“People in this town talk too much.” Cas opens his email, cringing at the number of unanswered queries in his inbox. He’s spent a lot of time with Dean this week, and it shows in the number of flagged emails clogged up at the top. He clicks on one that says, “Kindergarten class tour to see bears????” and says, “I’d prefer not to spread that information further. Dean already feels unsafe.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thought you weren’t getting attached.”</p><p> </p><p>“You thought wrong,” Cas says defensively, exiting out of his inbox as he preemptively gives up.</p><p> </p><p>Bobby grunts, shorthand for <em>you idjit</em>, but at least he doesn’t say it.</p><p> </p><p>“Leahy asked if we could hike Lovers’ Lane with her today, give her some insight on the area. Then she got called back to Richmond for some government bullshit, but I thought that’s no reason for us not to go have a look.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas tries not to smile. It disgruntles Bobby.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. Good idea. No kids coming in this morning?”</p><p> </p><p>“Nah.” Bobby stands up, patting his belly as he looks for the keys to lock the office. “I saved all the kiddie tours for you.”</p><p> </p><p>They hike up to the campground on Lovers’ Lane in companionable silence, which Cas appreciates. Bobby has never been the gabbing type, and neither is he. When Cas turns away from the big pine and fixes his eyes on the ground, Bobby doesn’t comment. He knows what it is to find someone like that on a trail. Bobby still avoids the spot where he found the gunshot victim, and Cas affords him the same respectful silence. They have a mutual understanding now of the pain carried by a bystander, though Cas’s story has thus far had a happier ending.</p><p> </p><p>The campground looks the same as it did when Cas made the hike three weeks ago — barren, unused. Bobby heads for the bathroom to take a piss, and Cas sits on a boulder overlooking the trailhead. This is the spot where he saw the shadow of a man disappear into the dark of the forest. He digs the toe of his boot into the dirt and tries to picture exactly where the man darted back into the trees.</p><p> </p><p>When Bobby comes out of the bathroom, Cas inclines his head toward the woods.</p><p> </p><p>“Feel like heading off the beaten path?”</p><p> </p><p>They spread out slightly as they walk through the forest, climbing up the slight incline toward the lower summit of the mountain. Cas has some idea of the path the man took — there’s a line of trampled down brush heading uphill, the result of a deer herd nesting in the area — and they follow it for a couple hundred yards. The path gradually steepens, and Bobby is panting by the time he says, “Hey! Look at this.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas wasn’t expecting to find anything, really — perhaps some trash or an abandoned campsite if they were lucky — so when Bobby holds up the necklace, a small, brass thing, Cas can only stare at it. It swings like a pendulum as the men study it, Bobby’s nose wrinkling as he says, “What the hell is it?”</p><p> </p><p>Cas steps closer, stopping the necklace’s arc with his palm. He holds the brass figure on the end in his hand, turning it over to reveal a face carved out of the metal. The eyes and mouth are closed as if in rest. On top of the head are two horns, curving upward toward the black cord looped through what appears to be a hat of some sort.</p><p> </p><p>“It looks tribal,” Cas says, closing his fingers around the figure. The horns dig into his palm. “But I’m not sure which culture it’s from.”</p><p> </p><p>“Not old enough to actually be a Native American artifact,” Bobby supplies. “You think it’s related to your mystery man?”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas pockets the necklace, and the two of them stand in place for a moment, scanning the woods. The deer path breaks up just ahead of them, changing into a rocky climb Cas is not looking forward to. He’s considering the best way to proceed when Bobby’s radio buzzes at his belt.</p><p> </p><p>“Ranger 2-5? Badge 2-1-4 for Ranger 2-5?”</p><p> </p><p>It’s Jody. Bobby huffs an irritated breath, but Cas suspects he’s secretly grateful for the interruption. It’s getting harder for the old man to make steep climbs.</p><p> </p><p>“Ranger 2-5. I hear ya, Sheriff.”</p><p> </p><p>“Bobby, I’m down at the park office. Are you and Cas around?”</p><p> </p><p>Bobby jerks his thumb back toward the trail, and Cas follows him silently down the deer path, back toward civilization.</p><p> </p><p>“We’re at the Lovers’ Lane campground, but we’re headed down. Give us an hour or so, and we’ll be there.”</p><p> </p><p>There’s a pause, then Jody says, “I have to head back to the office, but can you call me public service when you get into cell range? I’ve got a, uh, 10-21.”</p><p> </p><p>Bobby exchanges a look with Cas over his shoulder. 10-21 is a cop’s code for confidential information they don’t want to give out over the radio.</p><p> </p><p>“10-4.” Bobby puts his radio back on his belt, slowing so he and Cas are walking side by side down the thicker part of the trail. “I bet that’s about your boy.”</p><p>Cas can’t quite resist rolling his eyes. “He’s not ‘my boy.’”</p><p> </p><p>“Right. He’s only living with you, communicating pretty much solely with you, and got your attention on him all the time, even where you’re not around him.”</p><p> </p><p>“Bobby—”</p><p> </p><p>“I see you getting lost in that head of yours, Cas. I may have born at night, but I wasn’t born last night.” Bobby glares at him pointedly until Cas is forced to look down at his feet. “We still don’t know a damn thing about him other than his name — if it’s his real name. You’ve got to be careful.”</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t understand. Bobby might know more about Cas’s past than anyone else, but he doesn’t <em>understand</em> it. He doesn’t know how it feels to be trapped in the same nightmare every night, to spend your days doubting yourself and your capabilities, to know you’ll never be able to fix your worst mistake, a mistake that cost people their lives.</p><p> </p><p>Finding Dean wasn’t a second chance because Cas will never get back what he lost that day, but helping Dean still feels a bit like redemption.</p><p> </p><p>“I couldn’t just leave him.”</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t say you should,” Bobby says, then he goes quiet. They hike in silence down the rest of the trail, not speaking even when they reach the steepest part and Cas has to help Bobby half-walk, half-slide down the path with his bad hip. When they reach the trailhead at the bottom of the mountain, they stop to call Jody, huddled together over Cas’s phone.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, Cas,” Jody answers after two rings. “Bobby there too?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m here.”</p><p> </p><p>“Good. I’ve already updated Leahy, but I wanted to let y’all know I’ve been asking around town about a man that fits Dean’s description. Leahy took a picture of him in the hospital, and I’ve showed it to a few people I know can be discrete. No one seems to know who he is. A few think they may have seen him, always with other people — an older gentleman; a woman with shoulder-length dark hair; a tall black guy.All described as ‘rough looking’ or ‘sketchy.’ They would stop by the grocers or the feed store, and the pawnshop guy knew them, too. Bought a lot of ammunition. Always paid cash everywhere.”</p><p> </p><p>“I ain’t ever seen him before,” Bobby says. “They must not come around often.”</p><p> </p><p>“No,” Jody says, frustration in her voice, “that’s what all the shop owners said. They only came to town a few times a year. The only reason any of them remembered Dean was because of how— Well, frankly, how unnaturally handsome he is.”</p><p> </p><p>Bobby chuffs, looking pointedly at Cas. He feels his cheeks coloring, so he decides to move the conversation along.</p><p> </p><p>“Did Leahy have anything new? She was supposed to meet us today, but then she had to go back to Richmond for some reason.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Jody says, adding quietly, “I don’t think her bosses are too pleased with the progress on this case. A live witness but still no arrests? It’s not her fault, but...” Jody pauses. “I shouldn’t gossip. I know she’s looking at the cameras facing the highway coming out of the park, just in case our perps followed the creek down to a car waiting on the road. We’ll see what comes out of that.”</p><p> </p><p>Jody doesn’t sound hopeful. Cas touches the cool brass of the necklace in his pocket, and though he feels Bobby’s eyes on him, he doesn’t mention it.</p><p> </p><p>“Cas, maybe you can try to get a little more out of him?” Jody asks. “I’m worried if this drags out much longer the FBI will pull Leahy, and I don’t have the manpower to run a full-fledged investigation without her.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll try.” Cas thinks of how fast Dean shut down the last time Cas tried to question him. “But he’s still not talking.”</p><p> </p><p>“Dr. Tran says that’s psychosomatic. Maybe he just needs time, but time is limited.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m working on it,” Cas says, more harshly than he intended to. He tries to walk it back a bit. “I don’t want to push him too much. He nearly died a few days ago, Jody.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know.” Cas may not have had a loving mother, but he recognizes a mom voice when he hears one. She’s placating him. “Just keep what I said in mind. We have to be cautious about this until we know why he’s running.”</p><p> </p><p>He can’t find any non-biting response to that, so Bobby says, “He will be. We’ll talk to you later, Sheriff.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas walks around Bobby toward the park office, ignoring whatever Jody says before she hangs up. He knows those two have coffee together every Wednesday morning at the diner in town, and he knows sometimes Jody’s trunk stays parked in front of Bobby’s house overnight. They’re confidantes, possibly lovers, and they’re teaming up against him.</p><p> </p><p>“Cas.” Bobby’s stern tone stops him in his tracks. He turns around grudgingly. The older man has his hat off, holding it in his hands with a contriteness about him, as if he’s just entered a church. “Jody and I are interested in protecting you, even if you ain’t interested in protecting yourself.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know.”</p><p> </p><p>Bobby fiddles with his hat, pensive. “Those people he was seen with in town—”</p><p> </p><p>Cas clenches his jaw and waits for the inevitable <em>drug ring runners</em> theory.</p><p> </p><p>“It reminds me of a family I knew, growing up ‘round here. The Bartletts. They were a mountain people, real hardy. Real reclusive. Came down once or twice a year to get supplies or food or a shit ton of ammunition. The kids were filthy and the adults were twitchy. The whole town looked at ‘em like they were mud under our fingernails.”</p><p> </p><p>Bobby’s eyes are soft, unfocused. It takes Cas aback. Bobby’s standard setting is gruff and annoyed.</p><p> </p><p>“No one tried to get to know them. No one ever thought to check on them, up there in the mountains. No one cared about ‘em, ‘cause they made us uncomfortable. We looked the other way, pretended they didn’t exist. They were poorer than dirt and not worth our time. And one harsh winter nearly wiped all of ‘em out.”</p><p> </p><p>To Cas’s shock, Bobby’s face tightens, his lower lip trembling before he bites down on it and continues, “There was a girl — Karen.” His voice takes on a quiet reverence when he says the name. “One of the daughters. She made it, along with one of her brothers. The rest of them got sick— bad case of pneumonia —and dropped. They were trapped for over a month in a cabin with their dead family before the snow melted. Afterward Karen moved into town — assimilated, I suppose you’d say. She became my wife seven years later.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas knows Bobby was once married, but he knows it in the same way he knows an element or two of the periodic table or a bit of Spanish — the basic knowledge is there, but there are a lot of blanks, too. He knows Bobby was married, he knows she died years ago, before Cas moved to town. Till now he didn’t even know her name.</p><p> </p><p>“She told me once they slipped through the cracks,” Bobby says. “Out there, isolated. Her parents were suspicious people, and so were the rest of the damn town. None of the adults, not the Bartletts and not the town folk, tried to help those kids, who needed medicine and an education and a chance to leave the mountain if they wanted. But the Bartletts didn’t slip through the cracks. We all saw them, and we chose to ignore them.”</p><p> </p><p>Bobby heaves a sigh, swiping at his eyes with his knuckles. “There are people like that everywhere, in every little town or big city. It might be easier to lose them here, when they can go off and hide in the mountains, and I ain’t saying every isolationist out there needs or wants our help, but if your Dean comes from a situation like my Karen... Look, I’m not telling you to leave him to the wolves. People thought I was crazy for marrying Karen, and she—”</p><p> </p><p>Bobby sucks in air through his nose sharply. Watching Bobby hold back tears is a singular experience, something Cas never thought he’d ever witness, like watching a mountain implode and crumble in on itself.</p><p> </p><p>“She was the best woman — the best person — I ever knew. So don’t let our prejudices get in the way of you doing right. Just be cautious with your heart, Cas. That’s all. Even if he deserves it, you still won’t get it all back once it breaks.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Bobby goes home early, and Cas doesn’t tease him for it. The old man keeps most of his cards pressed tightly against his chest, and today he revealed his whole hand. Bobby meant well by it, but it still must feel a little like losing for a man who prides himself on his sharp, unflappable exterior.</p><p> </p><p>From the moment the sound of Bobby’s backfiring truck fades, Cas counts down the seconds to 5 p.m., when he can close the office for the night and go home. With every passing minute, the knot in his stomach gets tighter. He knows the chances of Dean still being there when he gets back are slim to none.</p><p> </p><p>A couple of campers straggle in at 4:52, wanting to fill out a permit for one of the sites at the bottom of the mountain. On a normal day, Cas would take time to explain the camping rules and regulations, maybe even walk them out to the site and give them a map with trails fitting their skill level highlighted. Today he stares them down as they giggle and chat instead of focusing on the form, barely suppressing a groan when one asks, “Are there, like, any rules about bonfires?”</p><p> </p><p>Cas escapes the office at 5:12, and he’s home in ten minutes. He drops his keys twice in his struggle to unlock the front door, hands clammy with sweat and mind certain Dean will be gone.</p><p> </p><p>Pushing the door open to the darkened living room confirms that fear. The room is spotless, aside from the smear of cat hair along the couch where Gracie spends most of her days. Cas hears her whine from the bedroom, and he slumps against the wall, dropping his bag and his keys carelessly. He needs to go take care of her, but his heart takes a moment to stop ramming against his ribcage. When he starts down the long, empty hallway, he sees light pouring out from under the guest room door. Cas nudges the door open with his foot, expecting to see the blankets folded and Dean gone, perhaps made off with some of the clothes Cas let him borrow.</p><p> </p><p>But no.</p><p> </p><p>Dean is curled up on top of the comforter, asleep and drooling on his forearm. Cas’s Dell laptop is open on the desk facing the bed, and Cas recognizes the soundtrack to one of the few DVDs he owns — <em>The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Cas crosses to the bed with care, avoiding the spots where he knows the floorboards creak and shudder. He closes the laptop, cutting off the sounds of a Middle Earth battle, and carefully pulls the throw blanket at the end of the bed over Dean. Dean stirs, mouth closing and opening again, eyes scrunched in sleep, but he doesn’t wake. Cas tiptoes back out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.</p><p> </p><p>He can’t believe Dean is still here. For all his fear and trepidation, he must have felt safe enough in Cas’s home, safe enough with Cas, to stay. A warmth spreads in Cas’s chest, a slight smile on his face. Dean didn’t leave.</p><p> </p><p>The rest of the night passes in a blur. Dean doesn’t wake up, and Cas lets him sleep. Dr. Tran said he might find himself exhausted in the days following his release, and Cas doesn’t have it in him to drag Dean out of bed and away from his needed rest, not even for dinner. He feeds Gracie and then himself, cleans her litter box and drags around her pet mouse, and sweeps the hall and living area free of cat hair. Then Cas retreats to his room and reads until lights out, head hitting the pillow with Dean on his mind.</p><p> </p><p>He dreams of the forest.</p><p> </p><p>It’s not an uncommon theme in Cas’s dreams, and it soon turns into an all too familiar nightmare.</p><p> </p><p>The screams start up before he gets his bearings, a continuous chorus of pain from an unknown direction. Cas tries to force his feet to move, but it’s as if they’re trapped in mud, rooted to the ground.</p><p> </p><p>“Wait!” he says, and the word passes his lips in the softest whisper. “I’m—“</p><p> </p><p>The water rushes in, as it always does, and shoves him back, takes him away. He turns and spins, banging into trees and boulders, drowning as the current carries him down, down the mountain and away from the screams. He grasps for branches, fingers raw and splinter-torn, gasping for air every time his head breaks the surface.</p><p> </p><p>He usually goes under and wakes up. But not this time.</p><p> </p><p>Instead the river dumps him on the leaf-covered ground, spitting him out and sweeping on and away. Disorientated, Cas rubs the water from his eyes and looks around. It’s dark, night when a moment ago it was day. The moon breaks through the top of the trees to illuminate a dark figure standing at the edge of the woods. Cas’s muscles tighten, preparing to spring to his feet to flee or fight.</p><p> </p><p>The figure turns and runs into the woods.</p><p> </p><p>“Wait!” Cas says again, and this time his yell echoes through the trees, startling the birds from their branches. “Stop!”</p><p> </p><p>He follows the figure into the forest, batting aside tree limbs and crawling over boulders, his torn hands protesting as they scrape against rock. He is weak and weary, but he is not stuck, not useless. He will catch this man. He has to catch this man.</p><p> </p><p>Instead of the deer trail, his mad dash through the woods brings Cas to a shuddering halt in front of the massive pine. Its dark branches curl downward, reaching for him, ensnaring him and pulling him in. Cas fights back, grasping at needles and trying to get away, back to the trail of the mysterious man. But the pine won’t let him go.</p><p> </p><p>It drags him in, pulls him close. Right to eye-level with a man’s torso. Cas looks up, dreading what he’ll find.</p><p> </p><p>It’s Dean. Of course it’s Dean. But his skin is cold and his eyes remain closed, and flies buzz about his face, landing on his freckled nose and crawling across his cheeks and bulging lips.</p><p> </p><p>He’s dead.</p><p> </p><p>Cas opens his mouth to scream, and that’s when he wakes.</p><p> </p><p>He sits straight up, startling Gracie. She leaps from her spot on his chest with a hiss, swatting at his leg in retribution.</p><p> </p><p>Cas presses the heels of his hands to his eyes until he calms enough to open them, giving Gracie a quick pat in apology before he leaps from the bed. His intention is to check on Dean in the guest room, but as soon as he hits the hallway Cas smells something burning.</p><p> </p><p>A quick dash to the kitchen reveals the source of the smoky odor — a sheepish Dean, hair mussed and borrowed pajamas rumpled, standing next to the toaster with a charred piece of bread in his hand.</p><p> </p><p>He holds it out toward Cas, shrugging. Cas could almost laugh, he’s so relieved.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s all right.” He takes the burnt bread and shows Dean the garbage can, hidden underneath the sink. “The toaster burns anything if you set it above the second setting. You couldn’t have known that.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean huffs, frustrated.</p><p> </p><p>“Sit down.” Cas gestures to the rickety table by the sliding glass doors that lead to the back porch. Dean goes reluctantly, plopping down in one of the chairs with an exaggerated grimace. “It’s fine; I’ll make more toast. Do you drink coffee?”</p><p> </p><p>A small nod. Cas will take what he can get.</p><p> </p><p>“I need to get more food,” he says, watching the water in the coffee pot boil. “I usually eat out, but I thought we’d go shopping today anyway. We can get groceries while we’re out.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean glances up from where he’s picking at the worn tablecloth, shaking his head adamantly.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t keep wearing my clothes. Well, you can, but you shouldn’t have to.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean shakes his head again, and Cas rummages in the cluttered junk drawer for a pen and an old National Parks Service notepad. He brings both to the table with the coffee, butter and toast.</p><p> </p><p>Dean takes the notepad and ignores the food, writing “Cas it’s too much.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s truly not.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean scrawls “I don’t have any $” underneath the first sentence, digging the pen into the pad so hard it leaves inkblots at the end of each letter.</p><p> </p><p>“If it will make you feel better, you can pay me back someday if you’d like. But I don’t mind helping.” Dean just stares at Cas, incredulous. Cas keeps his gaze even and his voice mild as he says, “Call it a favor from a friend.”</p><p> </p><p>He knows they’re not friends, not really. Cas saved Dean’s life and developed a possibly unwise attachment to him, but Dean doesn’t owe Cas anything, despite what he might think. Cas did what was right, nothing more than any decent person would do. Dean could disappear into the forest any time he chooses, lost like the mystery figure at the campsite, and Cas would have no choice but to let him go. But Cas wants them to be friends, wants Dean to feel safe enough to stay, safe enough to tell someone about whatever happened to him in the woods. He wants Dean’s trust, and he’ll do his best to earn it.</p><p> </p><p>Dean doesn’t blink for a long while, eyes tracing Cas’s with an open curiosity, belayed with a certain cautiousness, like he never considered Cas might want them to be friends. Cas tries to keep his expression neutral, waiting for Dean to make a decision.</p><p> </p><p>Dean picks up the pen and writes, “It’s dangerous to be my friend,” and his hand shakes when he pushes the notepad toward Cas.</p><p> </p><p>“I already told you,” Cas says, “I can handle it.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean bites his lip, tapping his fingers against the table, considering. When he takes a bite of his toast, eyes down, Cas thinks maybe he’s won another battle between them, if only for the time being.</p><p> </p><p>Breakfast passes quickly and in silence, and since Cas has the day off, they leave for the mall in the nearest city. Dean sits with his notepad on his lap, unused, watching the mountains. Cas sneaks glances at him to see Dean’s eyes following the ridges and peaks, the streams that pass by the road. It’s a beautiful drive, though not one he takes often, and Dean’s absorption indicates he’s seen this road even less than Cas. Another point toward Bobby’s theory.</p><p> </p><p>At the mall, Dean grows frustrated with the clothes shopping sooner than Cas anticipated, grumpy and dismissive after the first two pairs of jeans and three shirts. Cas starts throwing every item in Dean’s size in their basket, a cornucopia of plaid flannels and band t-shirts and dark colored jeans. Dean grudgingly allows Cas to buy him one pair of boots and one pair of tennis shoes, blushing and grunting when Cas attempts to goad him into picking out more.</p><p> </p><p>Seeing Dean’s discomfort, they end their shopping spree after the first two stores. Dean wanders the mall concourse with wide eyes, though Cas notices how he seems to scope out every direction before moving around the kiosks in the middle of the aisle. It’s almost as if Dean’s never seen a mall before, never been accosted to buy a cheap watch or been bombarded by the scent of dozens of perfumes and colognes. Cas buys them both pretzels from Auntie Annie’s, and the noise Dean makes upon his first bite is unholy. Cas hides his grin behind his own pretzel.</p><p> </p><p>When they pass the tacky $2 movie theater on their way out, it doesn’t escape Cas’s attention how Dean’s gaze is drawn to the poster for <em>Spider-Man 3</em>. The movie is almost six months old, and Cas has no interest in seeing it, but—</p><p> </p><p>But he can’t deny Dean. So they end up with a large buttered popcorn and two Cokes, sitting on suspiciously sticky seats and watching a film Cas can only generously describe as “silly.” Dean shrugs when Cas asks whether he enjoyed the movie, but he’s smiling, so Cas takes it as a mixed success.</p><p> </p><p>The drive back is as quiet as the drive up, Dean’s head lolling against the window as Cas drums his fingers along to the radio, their bags spread across the backseat. Cas swears he hears a low humming noise from Dean when Led Zeppelin’s “Ramble On” comes on, but it may be a trick of the wind.</p><p> </p><p>They carry the bags to Dean’s room — <em>the guest room</em>, Cas reminds himself — together. As Cas starts to head to his own bedroom, Dean grabs his forearm, stopping him.</p><p> </p><p>Cas looks from Dean’s hand on his arm to Dean’s face, uncertain and perhaps a bit frightened.</p><p> </p><p>“Dean?”<br/><br/>Dean squeezes Cas’s arm, opening his mouth and closing it, swallowing. The vein along his neck stands out sharply against the smoothness of his throat as he struggles to find his voice, and Cas is reminded vividly of how his neck looked, veins popped and red and bruised, hanging from that tree.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay, you don’t—”</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you.” It comes out shaky, hoarse. Dean’s voice is deep, rough, whether from disuse or naturally, Cas can’t tell. But he can tell how those two simple words took so much from Dean — so much effort, so much courage. A bit of trust, too. Those two words convey more than a thanks for the clothes and the snacks and the movie — they’re a thanks for Dean’s life.</p><p> </p><p>If this is where they start, that’s fine with Cas.</p><p> </p><p>When Dean drops his hand, Cas takes it in his own, squeezing back and letting go.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re welcome.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Part II: Death</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Cas wakes slowly the next morning, free of the nightmare that ripped him out of his sleep the day before. Gracie purrs as he pets her, lying still in her sunbeam. He’s been ignoring her for Dean’s sake, so he gives her extra catnip on top of her scratching post before wandering to the kitchen to make breakfast. Dean’s door is closed.</p><p> </p><p>They never got around to the grocery store yesterday, and to say Cas’s food pantry is sparse would be an understatement, so he settles for toast and butter again, making enough to feed Dean, too. While he waits on the coffee, Cas meanders back toward the guest room. He knocks lightly on the door before pushing it open a crack.</p><p> </p><p>The bed is made, corners of the quilt tucked in tight, a throw blanket folded neatly at the foot of the bed. Dean’s new boots sit on top of their box, receipt under the heel, next to two bags of clothes they purchased yesterday. The other bag is gone.</p><p> </p><p>Uneasy, Cas moves to the bathroom door, knocking a harsh <em>rap rap rap</em> against the wood.</p><p> </p><p>“Dean? Are you in there?”</p><p> </p><p>Silence.</p><p> </p><p>Cas opens the door to an empty room. The shower is dry; the toothbrush he’d left for Dean next to the sink is gone.</p><p> </p><p>Dean is gone.</p><p> </p><p>He expected this. He expected Dean to run away in the dark, to disappear into the mountains like mist when the dry air hits, yet after last night Cas imagined they’d had a breakthrough. But no. Cas sees the fog receding away, sliding over the ridge and out of sight. He doesn’t feel like he got played, like Bobby and Jody might say, but rather like he grasped for something he couldn’t hold and it slipped through his fingers. He feels like he’s still grasping, mind churning with worry as he wonders <em>what next?</em></p><p> </p><p>There are dangerous people after Dean. This much he made perfectly clear. He also made clear how he hated putting Cas in their path. But if he left for Cas’s sake, and those dangerous people find him—</p><p> </p><p>He knows better than to try and force Dean to stay, but he won’t let him go without knowing Dean has a plan in place, a way to account for his own safety.</p><p> </p><p>Cas gets in his car and drives. He keeps his eyes peeled, watching the shoulder of the road and the empty parking lots of closed storefronts as they pass. It starts to rain as he hits the middle of town, the sky vast and gray overhead. He heads west. There’s more room to run that way. It’s what he did when he ran — picked the direction with the most highway in front of him.</p><p> </p><p>There’s a gas station on the west edge of town, right before the highway winds away into the mountains, and Cas whips into the parking lot, splashing water from the drainage ditch up onto his windshield. Truckers frequent the store here before heading out on their long haul runs, and if Cas is going to find Dean, it’s going to be here.</p><p> </p><p>Cas isn’t much of a praying man — the urge to speak with God daily started to die out when he left the military, and it fled him completely after the nightmare he lived through in his first year with the park service — but he sends up a quick missive regardless.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Please let him be here.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>He throws his truck into park and jumps out, leaving the engine running. A light mist coats the parking lot in an eerie glow under the sodium lights at the pumps as Cas weaves between trucks, ignoring the curious stares tracking his progress. He never changed out of the sweats he slept in. What a sight he must make to these truckers, filling up on fuel and coffee before they hit the road, watching the strange man in sleep clothes trot through the rain with desperation in his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>At the far edge of the lot, past the pumps, Cas catches a glimpse of light brown hair and a flash of red plaid.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Dean.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>He’s here, climbing into the cab of a blue truck carrying a load of lumber, his plastic bag of clothes swinging from his wrist. An odd surge of simultaneous emotions — happiness, relief, anger, and fear — overcomes Cas as he yells, “Dean!”</p><p> </p><p>Dean turns, confusion flitting away when he spots Cas marching across the parking lot toward him. He throws his head back and groans, and Cas won’t pretend that reaction doesn’t ache like a blow to the gut.</p><p> </p><p>“You were just going to leave without telling me anything?” The hurt comes out as barbed accusation. “You were going to let me worry about you and where you’d gone, wondering if—”</p><p> </p><p>He trails off, not wanting to say more in front of the truck driver, who stares at them, open-mouthed, from the cab. Dean has the decency to appear at least a tiny bit chagrined, and he closes the truck door with a two-fingered salute to the driver, stepping down from the cab so he’s eye level with Cas.</p><p> </p><p>“You could have at least left a note,” Cas admonishes.</p><p> </p><p>Dean presses his lips into a line, staring at the wet ground between them. Rain drops into a puddle between their feet, sending out ripples. Cas gives in.</p><p> </p><p>“If you’re leaving, at least let me take you to the bus stop and give you money for a fare.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean looks up, a puzzled pinch between his brows.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s dangerous to hitch hike,” Cas says. “There’s a bus line in the next town over that goes all the way to the West Coast.”</p><p> </p><p>When Dean nods, capitulating, Cas recognizes his own defeat. He offered Dean two choices — stay or go — and Dean wants to go. Cas won’t keep him here, not for Agent Leahy or Jody or anyone else.</p><p> </p><p>He walks back to his truck without comment, ignoring the odd looks from the truckers and listening to Dean’s quiet footsteps behind him, near silent except for the occasional splash as they walk through a puddle. Dean climbs into the passenger seat, clutching his plastic bag of clothes to his chest. Everything he owns is in that bag, at least as far as Cas knows.</p><p> </p><p>“We can go home and get the rest of your things,” Cas says quietly. “If you want.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean leans against the window, shaking his head. Now Cas’s worry has tapered some, he notices Dean looks pale and tired, the bags under his eyes almost as pronounced as Cas’s.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you feel all right?” Cas asks, and Dean responds with a limp thumbs up. With nothing left to say and a gaping hole in the pit of his stomach, Cas pulls out onto the highway and heads toward the next town.</p><p> </p><p>It’s not long into the drive when he hears a low, soft rattle. Cas taps the air vents — they’re not on, but sometimes this old truck makes a wheezing effort to squeeze out air even in the dead of winter. But there’s nothing coming from the vents, and the rattle dissolves into a harsh, cracking cough.</p><p> </p><p>He glances over at Dean, alarmed, just in time to see his hand fall away from his mouth. It’s covered in a red, frothy mix of saliva and mucus. Dean raises his eyes from the blood-covered spittle in his hand to Cas’s face, apologetic, and Cas feels not disgust but panic as the next wheezing breath punches its way past Dean’s lip. Cas stomps the brakes, bringing the truck to a juddering halt on the shoulder, gravel flying. He waits for the eastbound traffic to clear before whipping a U-turn across the highway, headed back to town.</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s coughing now, sweat covering his forehead and cheeks as he sags against the door, one hand held permanently to his mouth. Cas checks on him whenever he can take his eyes off the road, watching as Dean’s face changes from tan to a sickly gray, blood leaking from between his fingers.</p><p> </p><p>Cas pulls out his cell phone and dials 9-1-1.</p><p> </p><p>He gets to the hospital faster than any ambulance could reach them, hazards blinking when he swings into the parking lot. Cas leaves the car where it sits, helping Dean out as the waiting ER team rushes to whisk him away in a wheelchair.</p><p> </p><p>For the second time in a week Cas is left standing alone in the waiting room.</p><p> </p><p>The nurse from the first visit is still manning the front desk, and she clears her throat pointedly, eyeing Cas and then one of the chairs. He wants to roll his eyes, to snap <em>my friend could be dying, don’t you have anything better to do?</em></p><p> </p><p>Instead he sits. And waits. And waits.</p><p> </p><p>Time seems to move differently in hospitals. The ticking second hand of the clock by the ER door crawls instead of jumping. The muted news on the television never seems to change from one story to the next. The snoring old man in the far corner never twitches awake, the nurse never stops typing away. Cas finds himself tapping his foot relentlessly, <em>up down up down up down</em>, and places a palm on his knee to force it to stop. It’s as if they’re all stuck in a loop, an endless space bridging the gap between the life of the outside world and the death Cas knows lurks behind those closed ER doors.</p><p> </p><p>By the time Dr. Tran emerges, Cas feels as though he’s glued to the plastic covering on his chair, peeling himself away to stand up and greet her.</p><p> </p><p>“Novak.” Tran eyes the clipboard she’s balancing between her hand and her stomach. “You’re down as ‘Dean Smith’s’ emergency contact, so I guess you get the full spiel this time.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas blinks in surprise, stunned Dean would think to attach his name to Cas’s in any official capacity.</p><p> </p><p>Tran doesn’t seem to notice his shock, moving right along as she reads, “I’ve diagnosed him with acute pulmonary edema, which is a fancy way of saying his lungs were filling with so much fluid he started to drown on dry land. It’s not unheard of following a near hanging, but it can be lethal if it’s not caught quickly.” She briefly looks up at Cas. “He’s lucky you were with him. Again. Lucky guy all around. Anyway, often a pulmonary edema is actually a sign of heart failure, but all the tests we’ve run regarding his heart have come up clear, so I think it’s safe to say this is negative pressure pulmonary edema, solely related to the blockage in his upper airways caused by the hanging. He’ll need to stay a few days for monitoring. Still on indigent healthcare, or do we have an actual ID now?”</p><p> </p><p>Cas shakes his head. “No. No ID. Just— Keep him down as Dean Smith.”</p><p> </p><p>Tran tucks her clipboard under her arm, unaffected. “Doesn’t matter to me,” she says. “We’ll take care of him regardless. He’s in ICU now and pretty heavily sedated, but stabilizing. Only family allowed in there, so no visits this time. I’d advise you go home and get some rest, too.” He feels her looking at the bags under his eyes. “Discharge should be in a few days — I’d say two or three, if he stays stable. We’ll hopefully be able to move him out of ICU and into a regular room tomorrow, so come by during visiting hours, 7 a.m. to 8 p.m. I’ll call you if anything changes.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you,” Cas manages. “For this, and for— For last time.”</p><p> </p><p>Tran gives him an odd look, but then she smiles, resting a hand on his shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>“He’ll be all right,” she says softly. “It was a close call, but you caught it in time.” Her hand moves away from his shoulder and she slips back into doctor mode. “Now, since this particular hospitalization isn’t coming on the heels of a possible crime, I can’t disclose his condition to Jody or the FBI. That’s a discussion you and Dean will have to have.” She pauses. “However he chooses to have it. I will say the selective mutism is a bit odd. I’ve never seen it in an adult. He might benefit from therapy, but that’s not my field of expertise.”</p><p> </p><p>“Noted,” Cas says, though it’s not like he could convince Dean he needs to see a therapist if he can’t even convince him to stay.</p><p> </p><p>A high-pitched ringing noise emits from the pager clipped onto Tran’s scrubs, interrupting any other questions Cas might have formed.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s my call to duty.” Tran backs away from him, pushing the ER door open with her hip. “Get some rest, okay?” Then she’s gone, off to save more lives.</p><p> </p><p>Cas doesn’t wait for the nurse to chide him for pacing. He walks out to the parking lot where his truck sits crookedly, taking up two full spots. There’s a scratch down the driver’s side door, an angry mark left by a disgruntled asshole with a set of keys. Cas sighs and climbs into the cab. It’s a small price to pay for saving Dean. Again.</p><p> </p><p>The drive home from the hospital is a shorter trip than the others he made today if he measures it not in distance but in time spent worrying. He moves as if on autopilot, feeding Gracie and eating a sandwich and letting Bobby and Jody know Dean is in the hospital again, though he keeps the details sparse. He avoids the guest bedroom with its carefully made bed and the bags of clothes sitting on top of the quilt, unused.</p><p> </p><p>The rest of the afternoon and the night pass slowly, and Cas barely sleeps. Tran texts him in the morning to let him know Dean’s room number, and Cas texts Bobby he’ll be in a little late before he heads to the hospital, heart in his throat. Dean wanted to leave before. Cas doubts yet another near-death experience has changed his mind.</p><p> </p><p>Still, that won’t stop Cas from bringing in a small bribe — fresh cut fruit and a little stuffed teddy bear with a tiny t-shirt that says “Get Better Beary Soon!” he bought at the corner market. The teddy bear made him smile, but as Cas walks through the automatic doors into the patient area, he wonders if Dean will be weirded out by it.</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s in a room on the first floor this time, and Cas doesn’t recognize any of the nurses from his last visit. They ignore him as he makes his way to Dean’s room, the bear half hidden behind his coat. When he opens the door, he smiles to see Dean already awake, a plastic cup of peaches half-eaten in front of him and a frown on his face as watches cartoons on the little television mounted against the wall.</p><p> </p><p>“Gumby?” Cas asks, and Dean glances over at him and shrugs. “I didn’t know they played that anymore.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean picks up the notepad lying on the TV tray next to the peaches and writes, <em>“The bad guys stole Pokey.”</em></p><p> </p><p>“Tragic.” Cas didn’t really watch cartoons as a child. His parents were very strict when it came to television time, and when he and his siblings were allowed to watch TV, his older brothers most often picked the shows. “Will Gumby get him back?”</p><p> </p><p>Dean nods confidently, an exaggerated <em>oh yeah, definitely</em> look on his face. He gestures to Cas’s lap, where he’s holding the plastic container of fruit and the bear.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh yes, uh...” Cas sits the fruit down in front of Dean, and he shoves the hospital peaches aside in favor of the container of fresh strawberries, pineapple, blueberries and grapes, immediately popping a berry into his mouth. “I figured this would be better than what the hospital would give you. I would have brought more, but I wasn’t sure what would be on the approved diet for your condition—”</p><p> </p><p>Dean holds his hand out toward Cas, flicking his wrist toward the bear. Cas can’t help but smile. “Don’t be a brat. Here.” He places the bear in Dean’s hand, and Dean holds it up, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Stop.” Cas blushes. “I just saw it and thought it was funny, that’s all.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean tucks the bear under his arm, still grinning, and starts to eat his fruit again. They’re quiet for a while, watching Gumby rescue Pokey while Dean eats his breakfast. Cas longs for coffee, but he didn’t want to bring any in for himself if Dean isn’t allowed to drink it as well.</p><p> </p><p>When Dean is done eating, he picks up the notepad and scrawls, <em>“Thank you BEARY much,”</em> and Cas rolls his eyes at him. He takes silent pleasure in the way Dean smiles as he places the little bear in the center of his lap, granting it a place of honor.</p><p> </p><p>“How are you feeling?” Cas asks, though the answer seems obvious. Dean shrugs and gives a thumbs up. “Good, that’s... good. I was worried.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean looks down at his lap, fiddling with the bear’s rounded paws before he picks up the notepad again.</p><p> </p><p><em>“I’m sorry,” </em>he writes, and, when Cas begins to protest, adds beneath it, <em>“You’ve been so nice to me. I didn’t want to say goodbye to you.”</em></p><p> </p><p>“Oh.” Cas’s mouth might be gaping open slightly. “Well, I was upset, yes, but you don’t — I want you to understand that you don’t have to stay with me if you don’t want to. After you’re better, if you still feel unsafe here, my offer to take you to the bus stop still stands. I do wish you’d reconsider, but...”</p><p> </p><p>Cas trails off, not sure if he can say “I’d let you go if that’s what you want.” It sounds inappropriate, even if only in his head. Dean stares at him, watching Cas in that way he so often watches others, as if he’s looking for something. Cas wonders if he finds it.</p><p> </p><p>Dean picks up the pen again and carefully writes out, <em>“Dr. Tran says I have to be “monitored” for any signs of relapse for at least a week. So I guess you’re stuck with me a little while longer.”</em></p><p> </p><p>Cas is more excited about this news than he should be, considering the dangers of Dean’s situation. He can’t quite keep down his grin as he says, “I don’t mind that at all. It’s almost nice to have a roommate — one who doesn’t cough up fur balls on my clothes, even if he does burn the toast.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean flips him off, but it’s good-natured. <em>“I try to do something nice for a guy...”</em></p><p> </p><p>“It was nice. No one has ever given me charcoal before.” Dean shoves lightly at his shoulder, playful, and Cas just rocks with the motion, letting him have his win. He’s currently in a hospital bed, after all, and if Dean’s happy enough in this moment to mess with Cas, Cas is happy to take it.</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Dr. Tran clears Dean for release two days later, and he leaves the hospital in the clothes Cas bought for him, carrying the bear in one hand and his release papers in the other. He’s not in a great mood, despite being cleared to go home, so Cas doesn’t try to start a conversation on the drive out to the park office. Dean reads his release packet, brow furrowed as he scans the list of medications they’ll have to pick up at the pharmacy once Cas is off work. No doubt he’s getting worked up over the quoted prices, but Cas isn’t about to start the argument on how he’s fine with paying for them.</p><p> </p><p>Bobby greets them with a grunt as they walk in, and Cas nods at him in return. He had to beg Bobby to allow Dean to hang out at the office during the day, finally pulling out the “He almost died twice!” card. Bobby is less than enthusiastic about having “Dean Doe” underfoot, and he’s made that perfectly clear to Cas, which is why he steers Dean toward the break room and away from his boss as soon as they’re in the door.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve got a few presentations scheduled this morning, so I thought you could either sit in on them or sleep on the couch in here.” Cas makes his coffee as he speaks, handing Dean the boxed apple juice he learned Dean favors while he was in the hospital. Tran recommended Dean lay off on coffee and alcohol for a few weeks, so he’s stuck with what he dubbed <em>“the kid crap.” </em>“You’re free to use my laptop, but I’m afraid I can’t let you onto my desktop. Government restrictions and all. Uh, there’s plenty of food in the fridge, anything marked ‘Cas’ is yours to take. Don’t eat Bobby’s Hostess cakes; he considers that an unforgivable sin.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean raises his eyebrows, so Cas explains, “Garth, our park medic, made that mistake once. Bobby didn’t speak to him for a month. And Garth is the friendliest, chattiest person I’ve ever met. Watching him get stonewalled by Bobby was like watching a puppy trail the owner that kicked it. So — are you coming to the presentation or staying here?”</p><p> </p><p>Dean leans back against the couch, and Cas tries not to be offended he’s choosing a nap over watching him work. He’s giving a lecture on forest preservation to a bunch of third graders; it’s not exactly everyone’s scene, and Dean is still worn out from his hospital stay.</p><p> </p><p>“All right, well.” Cas awkwardly waves with one hand. “I’ll see you in a little while, then.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean ducks his head in a minuscule nod as Cas ducks out, closing the door to the break room behind him. Bobby simply raises an eyebrow at him as he hurries into the reception area, where he can already hear the excited chatter of the children perusing the little exhibits set up by the entrance — a 3-D model map of the park; a stuffed river otter that has, as far as Cas is aware of, always been called Otto; a cut-through of a tree trunk showing its age lines. They’re a small park with a small budget, so there’s not much to look at, but the class is predictably crowded around Otto. One little boy is poking at its nose.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Cas says, plastering on a smile, “who’s ready to talk about how to save the forest?”</p><p> </p><p>He’s never been good at these sorts of things — field trips, demonstrations. Talking to people. When Cas joined the park service, he did so because he appreciated the quiet beauty of the natural world — a babbling brook, a fawn bounding through a meadow, fern trees swaying in the wind. He knew there would be other aspects to the job, of course, public education being one of them, but he had hoped he’d grow used to those duties.</p><p> </p><p>He hasn’t.</p><p> </p><p>Cas can get through this particular presentation while sleepwalking, but he still finds himself straining when it comes to interacting with the children — everything he says feels stilted, robotic. They might not notice, but the teachers always do. They usually try to rescue him by asking their own questions of the children — “Do you understand why trees are so important, Timmy?” “What is an ecosystem, Dana?” — while he stands at the front of their assembled semi-circle, hands awkwardly stuffed in his pockets. Today is no exception. As soon as he’s done with his speech, the teacher, a woman named Hannah he’s worked with often, takes over and entertains the children until their assigned half-hour with Cas is up.</p><p> </p><p>As he’s handing the class off to Garth, who’s teaching them basic first aid for the trail ahead of their hike with Bobby, one little girl tugs on his jacket.</p><p> </p><p>“Excuse me, Mr. Ranger?”</p><p> </p><p>Cas looks down at the girl, a blonde with her hair in tight pigtails. “Yes?”</p><p> </p><p>“My daddy says this park is a waste of tax money.” Cas blanches as the girl rocks back on her heels, studying him carefully. “What does that mean?”</p><p> </p><p>“Meg!” Hannah whisper-shouts. “Eyes up front!”</p><p> </p><p>It’s in a bit of daze that Cas walks back to the office, questioning his life choices, which have been historically awful, and wondering what kind of parent talks to their nine-year-old about tax waste.</p><p> </p><p>As he gets closer to the back office, Cas hears Bobby say, “You’re telling me, a damn forty-year forest service veteran, that I’m wrong?” There is only one person Bobby could be griping at, so Cas hurries through the door to separate him from Dean.</p><p> </p><p>Turns out, he doesn’t need to.</p><p> </p><p>The two of them are hunched over one of Bobby’s maps — not the park maps that are scattered all over the office, but a map of the mountains in this portion of the state — with Hostess cupcake crumbs on their faces. Dean is still chewing through his last bite as he points at something on the map, then draws something on a notepad, unaware Cas has walked in. Bobby notices him, though, and calls out, “Novak! Get your ass over here and tell this idjit this map is not drawn wrong!”</p><p> </p><p>Cas leans over the desk to look at the area Dean’s pointing at — it’s outside of town, west of the park. There’s a small valley there, if Cas remembers correctly, tucked into the mountains and accessible by a one-lane dirt road that connects to the highway. The area on the map shows that road stopping before it reaches the river that runs along the bottom of the mountains. Dean’s map, drawn out carefully on a notepad he stole from Cas’s desk, shows the valley in greater detail, complete with little squares that must symbolize houses and outbuildings. Dean’s drawn not one road, but two, one branching out from the other. One crosses the river at a bridge he’s labeled and continues on up into the mountains.</p><p> </p><p>“Since when has there been a road there?” Bobby asks with a snort. “I was up that way not a year ago, droppin’ by the Roadhouse, and I’ve never seen another road.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas glances at Dean, who taps his finger against his own map and then leans back on his heels, arms crossed.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you two done arguing?” Cas asks, with some amusement. “Because I was going to take Dean with me to pick up lunch, but if you’d rather discuss invisible roads—”</p><p> </p><p>“He doesn’t need lunch when he’s ate half my damn cupcakes,” Bobby grumbles as he rolls up the map, but Cas can tell it’s his fondly gruff voice, not his irritated gruff one. Dean makes a show out of wiping the crumbs off on his jeans, and Bobby continues to grumble incomprehensibly under his breath.</p><p> </p><p>Dean writes something on the notepad and holds it up to show Cas, a smug smile on his face. <em>“He offered me the cupcakes after I fixed the broken microwave in the kitchen. I think he likes me after all.”</em></p><p> </p><p>Bobby glances over his shoulder to read Dean’s note. “Don’t get too far ahead of yourself! And pick me up some Chinese while you’re out. Least you could do after passing the buck to me on this field trip shit. Leading those kids around these trails at my age...”</p><p> </p><p>Cas ignores Bobby. “You fixed the microwave? Bobby couldn’t even get it to work.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean shrugs, the corner of his mouth tipping up in obvious pride. <em>“I’m good with my hands.”</em></p><p> </p><p>“Right.” Cas tries not to look too hard at those hands, loosely holding the notepad to Dean’s chest, and he doubly tries not to imagine what else they’re capable of. He can hear Bobby snort at him from across the room, but hopefully it’s not something Dean picked up on. “Well. Lunch?”</p><p> </p><p>Dean simply nods and starts toward the door, and Cas follows behind him. As they leave they walk past Garth and the third graders, and Dean gives a small wave to the kids who turn to look at them. There’s a comfort in his gait that wasn’t there this morning, an ease in the way he pushes the front door open and ambles outside.</p><p> </p><p>Cas follows when he should be leading, still feeling the heat of a blush in his cheeks, and he wonders if maybe this is why he’s drawn to Dean — this cocky irreverence that hides the damage, the wariness and the worry, that Cas knows resides underneath. It’s so different, yet so similar to himself. Only instead of confidence covering pain, Cas has awkwardness. Cas has never been good with people, and yet Dean managed to charm a skeptic like Bobby in one morning. Maybe Cas is just another person who couldn’t resist Dean’s pull, or maybe they’re two sides of the same coin.</p><p> </p><p>It’s too early to tell, but Cas selfishly hopes it’s the latter.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>A week passes in relative quiet.</p><p> </p><p>Having Dean around the house is a bit like living with the world’s most polite roommate. He helps Cas clean and cook and drinks his juice next to him on the back porch while Cas takes his morning coffee. They watch a lot of old VHS tapes — <em>Star Wars, The Goonies, Reservoir Dogs. </em>Cas finds Dean’s tastes in movies and music seem to be restricted to anything released in the ‘70s through ‘90s. Dean still sneezes around Gracie occasionally, but the medicine Cas bought him seems to help. Cas has caught Dean playing with her more than once, dragging her toy mouse around the hardwood floors while she pounces behind him. She likes him better than she likes Cas, which would be something of a miracle if she liked Cas at all.</p><p> </p><p>Dean goes to work with Cas every day, and he fixes little things around the office — the loose hinge on the door to the storage closet, the corner of the ceiling tile in the back office where it always leaks, the jammed drawer in Cas’s desk. Cas keeps insisting he doesn’t need to work to earn his stay, telling Dean he should be relaxing while he recovers, and Dean just rolls his eyes. Dean’s right, though. Bobby does like him, and the old man seems to like him more and more with each completed project.</p><p> </p><p>“He’s a hard worker,” Bobby says one day, drinking a cup of coffee next to Cas and watching Dean as he sits on the floor, cross-legged and fiddling with Garth’s busted radio. Cas hums in response, keeping his <em>who’s getting attached now? </em>in his own damn head.</p><p> </p><p>They’ve been keeping an eye on the trails, but they’ve found no sign of Dean’s attackers. He’s still unwilling to name them. Agent Leahy dropped by Cas’s house a few days ago, and while he was making lunch he saw her having a conversation in sign language with Dean in the living room. Dean’s signs seemed shorter, simpler, but Leahy was patient with him — far more patient than Cas had ever seen her before. Before she left, she pulled Cas outside to tell him Dean could use basic ASL, and it might benefit them both to learn more. For once, she didn’t say anything about the case, only that she’d be back to talk to Dean again.</p><p> </p><p>When Cas asked Dean what they talked about, he wrote, <em>“How I learned the ASL I know. What words and phrases I can use without spelling shit out.”</em></p><p> </p><p>“How did you learn it?”</p><p> </p><p>Dean fiddled with the pen for a moment before writing, <em>“My mom taught me.”</em></p><p> </p><p>He seemed uncomfortable, so Cas deflected by asking, “Will you teach me?”</p><p> </p><p>Dean taught him the signs for tree, woods, car, road. How to spell his name. How to say “go” and “stop” and “yes” and “no.” Cas followed his motions carefully, watching his fingers move and shift with a bit of wonder. His knowledge might be basic, but Dean has lovely hands.</p><p> </p><p>He’s still thinking about those hands when Dean lets out a whoop, startling Cas into nearly dropping his coffee. Even Bobby jumps at the sound, so unused to hearing any vocalizations from Dean.</p><p> </p><p>Dean sheepishly holds up the radio. It’s blinking green now.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, I’ll be damned,” Bobby says. “Garth swore up and down he needed a new one. Glad to save the taxpayers that expense.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas shakes his head. “He means thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean gives them a thumbs up, unfolding his legs and standing up. He looks down at the radio in his hands, turning it over as he screws the back on. Then he holds it up to his mouth and does something that shocks Cas far more than the excited yelling.</p><p> </p><p>“Breaker, breaker,” Dean says, and it comes through both Cas and Bobby’s radios. “Testing one, two, three.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas is fairly certain Bobby’s jaw would unhinge if it dropped open any more. Only the rocking of the office ceiling fan and the static buzz of the radios break the silence in the room. Dean stares between the two of them, eyes wide, with the radio at his lips.</p><p> </p><p>“I thought you weren’t talking,” Bobby says after a moment. His voice is low. Suspicious. Cas sees the way Dean shuts down at the sound of it, how his shoulders start to curve inward and how he presses his lips together so tightly they begin to whiten.</p><p> </p><p>He decides to interfere. “He’s spoken to me before. It’s just a sometimes thing. When he’s comfortable.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure,” Bobby says, eyes on a Cas, who can guess what he’s thinking. <em>You’re too trusting. We’re both too trusting.</em></p><p> </p><p>“Bobby, he’s—” Whatever protest Cas plans to make is cut off by the sound of frantic scribbling. Dean’s placed the radio on Garth’s desk, and he’s writing what looks like an entire paragraph on his notepad. Bobby and Cas wait for him to finish. Dean holds it up, the top of the pad partially covering his face and hiding his expression.</p><p> </p><p><em>“When I was a kid I never spoke. It wasn’t because I was mute. I just couldn’t do it. My parents didn’t know why. My mom taught me some ASL to get by. I started talking more as I got older, but sometimes it’s still hard to get the words out. After—” </em>There’s a dark space where Dean scribbled out whatever he wrote. <em>“—my accident it’s been the same as it was when I was a kid. If I’m thinking about talking, I just can’t do it. I don’t know why.”</em></p><p> </p><p>Dean watches their faces before flipping the page and writing more.</p><p> </p><p><em>“I know you don’t really trust me, but I’m not pretending. And Cas — I can </em> <em>speak</em> <em> write for myself.”</em></p><p> </p><p>“Of course, sorry,” Cas says, chagrined. He glances at Bobby. The old man gives Dean a curt nod, then turns back to his computer. Cas can tell by the stiff way he holds himself that Bobby considers the conversation over, and he’s not entirely satisfied by the outcome. “Well. Thank you for fixing the radio. And, uh, perhaps we should go check out the Green Trail now?”</p><p> </p><p>Dean ducks his head in assent, tucking the notepad under his arm as he follows Cas out of the office. They take the UTV out of the garage, and for once Dean doesn’t run his hands over the other vehicles or admire the locked gun rack mounted on the back wall. He sits silently next to Cas as they drive to the trail, a basic hike that runs along the bottom of the mountain. Cas drums his fingers against the steering wheel.</p><p> </p><p>“Dean,” he says when he can’t hold it back anymore, “I haven’t wanted to push you. But it might make things easier with everyone else if you were willing to tell me something, anything really, about yourself and your past.”</p><p> </p><p>Silence. Cas glances over at Dean. He’s watching the trees as they bump along the trail. Cas sighs and turns his attention back to the road.</p><p> </p><p>They’ve almost reached the edge of the trail when Dean says, “My mother was a good person.” His voice is hoarse. Cas still feels a jolt every time he hears it. He likes it. It fits Dean. A little rough around the edges but with a softness underneath. “My dad didn’t have any patience with the whole not-speaking thing. I remember hiding under the kitchen table once after he yelled at me for not talking. He’s got a fucking loud voice — like thunder. At least that’s what I thought as a kid. Scared the shit out of me. But my mom — she was always soft. Kind. She came and sat under the table with me. That’s when she taught me my first sign.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas stops the UTV to watch as Dean holds up his hand, thumb out, pointer and pinky extended. Even Cas knows this one. “I love you.”</p><p> </p><p>“She was a special needs teacher before I was born,” Dean says, looking at his hands. “She wasn’t fluent, but she’d picked up enough to communicate with a deaf girl in one of her classes. She taught what she remembered to me. Real basic stuff, like the signs for hunger and sadness and love. It helped. She made me feel safe. I started talking to her before anyone else.”</p><p> </p><p>“What happened to her?” Cas asks, though he can tell the answer by the way Dean talks about her.</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t look at Cas. “She’s dead.”</p><p> </p><p>“And your father?”</p><p> </p><p>“Gone.” Dean balls up his fists in his lap. Cas doesn’t point out that <em>gone</em> is very different from <em>dead</em>. “I told you. No family. No one for you to call. No one wants me.”</p><p> </p><p>“I do.”</p><p> </p><p>He shouldn’t say things like that. Open, honest things with a pulse of their own that beats in the silence which follows them. Cas remembers what openness like this towards other men has gotten him in the past — a split lip, a derisive snort, his brother begging <em>don’t ask, don’t tell, okay?</em> and not caring he’d condemn Cas to living alone for the rest of his life.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, thanks,” is what Dean says after a moment of silence, looking at his hands in his lap. Cas doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed Dean didn’t seem to notice the depth of the sentiment. He puts the UTV into gear and turns them around.</p><p> </p><p>“You know, my family doesn’t want me, either.” <em>You absolute idiot</em>, Cas thinks immediately after the words leave his mouth.</p><p> </p><p>Dean stares at him, eyebrows raised. He looks skeptical. “What?”</p><p> </p><p>So apparently they’re doing this. “It’s true.”</p><p> </p><p>“Who wouldn’t want you?”</p><p> </p><p>The words send a flare of bright happiness through Cas, but it's doused by the memory of the last words he exchanged with Michael. It’s not a pleasant topic, but he feels he owes Dean something in exchange for the way he opened up about his mother.</p><p> </p><p>“I come from a military family,” he says. “My father and grandfather and great-grandfather all served, going back to World War I. My two older brothers are lifers — lieutenant colonels, now. One in the Army, one in the Marines. I was Army, like Michael.”</p><p> </p><p>He remembers the family meals — structured, regimented. Everyone sitting ramrod straight, Michael just home from a field review in his dress blues. Anna and Gabriel might have followed Luke into the Marines — they were the headstrong ones, interested in the physical pursuit and punishment of the military’s most notorious branch — but Cas always likened Michael unto God. There was no way he could do anything other than follow his eldest brother, from West Point to Kuwait.</p><p> </p><p>“We were part of Operation Desert Storm in 1991. I was twenty-two, fresh out of West Point, a second lieutenant.” Cas closes his eyes. “We rained hell down, and we watched the desert burn. I started to wonder then if I was doing the right thing, following in Michael’s footsteps. He was there with me, but it was like we weren’t even seeing the same thing. His eyes slid right over the civilians. Mine couldn’t look away.</p><p> </p><p>“But I stayed, got myself promoted to captain. I was deployed twice more, to Bosnia and Albania. I saw more things I wish I could un-see, but it was the only thing I knew how to do; the job I prepared for my entire life. And I hated it, so eventually I left.” That’s not the whole truth, but he doesn’t know how to tell that story to Dean. He doesn’t want to imagine his reaction. “My family didn’t understand.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean doesn’t react other than to place a hand on Cas’s shoulder, squeezing it once before letting go. Cas just keeps himself from chasing after the touch.</p><p> </p><p>“So,” he says after nearly a minute of tense silence. “What are we going to watch tonight? Something old, something new?” They’ve been working their way through Cas’s meager DVD collection, and he’s noticed that most of Dean’s pop culture knowledge revolves around the late 70s through early 90s, as if he hasn’t seen a new film since ’95.</p><p> </p><p>“Something borrowed, something blue,” Dean intones with a light smirk, and Cas blinks at him. “What? I almost got married once.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh.” It seems to be the only word Cas is capable of forming. He’s shocked, yes — he can’t imagine Dean in a normal life with a normal woman, suit and tie and church and vows — but that may be because jealousy prevents it.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” Dean looks away. “Wasn’t meant to be.” Cas tries to imagine he doesn’t sound wistful. It doesn’t work. “How about something new?”</p><p> </p><p>“Well,” Cas says, determined to move away from the subject for his own sake more than Dean’s, “there is a new <em>Indiana Jones</em> movie...”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>After a few days of sullen glaring and low grumbling, Bobby has seemingly forgiven Dean — or he’s willing to overlook his doubts about the younger man in exchange for help with the park service truck, which has been acting up. They’ve been in the garage for over an hour, and the last Cas checked they appeared to be taking the engine apart. He left them to their grease and pistons. At least they’re getting along, even if they’re both mostly silent around each other now.</p><p> </p><p>He has his own errand to run today, and with Bobby stuck in the office and the trails closed for standard maintenance, now is the best time to do it.</p><p> </p><p>Cas writes a quick note — <em>Out for lunch, be back at 1:30. Will bring something for Dean.</em> — and leaves it on Bobby’s desk, under his boss’ metal lunchbox. He stuffs a map of the area into his jacket pocket as he walks out the door.</p><p> </p><p>He hasn’t forgotten Dean and Bobby’s argument from a week ago — the mysterious vanishing road Dean insisted existed despite Bobby’s protests to the contrary. Cas knows exactly the area they were fighting about, and he can’t remember a road there, either. But he has a feeling it holds the first real clue to Dean’s identity.</p><p> </p><p>Guilt churns in Cas’s stomach as he drives across town, following the winding road at the foot of the mountain until it splits off from the highway, turning into a one-lane dirt road that hugs the base. He should just ask Dean why he knows this part of the mountain so well, what it means to him. He shouldn’t be sneaking around behind his friend’s back. Yet Cas knows how reticent Dean is to offer up any information about himself — after they revealed the secrets of their broken families, the only conversations Dean has indulged in revolved around pop culture. Doing some digging on his own may be the only way to find out who Dean truly is.</p><p> </p><p>There’s a rundown bar at the foot of the mountains where bikers and truckers and other manner of road dwellers congregate, and it’s right next to the area where Dean drew his addition to the official map. Cas visited the bar, the Roadhouse, once with Bobby. It was years ago, a few weeks from Cas’s start date at the park. The old man was in a crotchety mood and insisted on silence while he drank a bottle of Jim Beam served by a middle-aged woman with laugh lines and a kind face. She knew Bobby. Cas remembers her patting his hand before they left, Cas with the keys to Bobby’s truck in his pocket. Thanks to Jody he learned later that day was the anniversary of Karen’s death.</p><p> </p><p>A bell rings when Cas steps inside, announcing his presence to the sparse 1 p.m. crowd. A few look up from their cups, and, seeing the uniform, watch curiously as he crosses the room to the bar where a young woman with blonde hair in a swinging ponytail cleans beer-stained glasses and hums along to the REO song playing over the jukebox.</p><p> </p><p>She spots Cas as he leans against the counter, cringing at the tacky feel built up of one too many spilled drinks.</p><p> </p><p>“Give me a sec, and I’ll wipe that down for ya,” she says, then turns to the far end of the bar, snapping her fingers at a drunk asleep in the corner, head rested on his folded arms. “Hey Ash, we actually have customers right now! Can you come do your job?”</p><p> </p><p>The man barely lifts his head off his arms, blinking red eyes at her.</p><p> </p><p>“Useless,” the woman mutters as she comes to a stop in front of Cas, slapping a wet, slightly brownish rag on the counter. “What can I get for you, uh—” She gives his uniform a quick once over, and he catches sight of her name tag — “JO.” “—Officer?”</p><p> </p><p>“Ranger, actually. Ranger Cas Novak. No drinks or anything,” Cas says. “I’m here about a case involving an assault on park property.”</p><p> </p><p>Jo blinks, her customer service grin frozen in place. “Oh.”</p><p> </p><p>“I have reason to believe the man who was assaulted has been to this establishment before, and that his assailants are people he knows well, and thus they might have been here before, too.” Cas fishes in his jacket pocket, pulling out the photo of Dean Agent Leahy took at the hospital. “Do you recognize him?”</p><p> </p><p>Jo’s mouth drops open, and her hand, previously wiping the bar down mindlessly, freezes. “I—”</p><p> </p><p>“He’s all right,” Cas hurries to say. He sees the horror and recognition in her eyes, and he puts the photo away. He also hates looking at it, seeing Dean battered and broken and bruised. In the photo he’s asleep, black and blue skin mottled over his eyes and cheekbones. Leahy thought someone might recognize him, but Jo is the first person who truly has. “He’s recovering now. We’re just trying to find out who did this to him.”</p><p> </p><p>“Um.” Jo shakes her head, as if clearing her thoughts. “Well, that’s— you said he’s all right?” she asks, distracted, staring at the wet mess on the counter.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>“I do know him,” she says, voice soft. “That’s Dean.”</p><p> </p><p>“Jo,” Cas says, lowering his own voice as Ash finally rouses himself, passing behind Jo on his way to the other end of the bar, “if you could tell me what you know about Dean, it would go a long way to helping us find out who did this to him.”</p><p> </p><p>She bites her lower lip. “Look, Ranger, he’s a pretty private person—”</p><p> </p><p>“I know,” Cas says with a half laugh. “Took him over a week to even talk to me. But anything you know, <em>anything at all</em>, would be much appreciated.”</p><p> </p><p>Jo rocks back on her heels, hands holding onto the edge of the bar for balance. Cas can see the fight she’s having with herself — this is a backwoods place, the kind of place where law enforcement is frowned upon, and people can come and go as they please, doing what they please, without fear of any authority coming down on him. He saw the looks he got for his uniform. It’s a world of us versus them, and he’s <em>them</em> to Jo, to the other people in this bar. To Dean.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t care. It won’t stop him in his pursuit.</p><p> </p><p>“Whoever did this doesn’t deserve to be protected,” Cas tells her, voice firm with conviction, “but Dean does.”</p><p> </p><p>Jo looks him directly in the eye. “Follow me back to the office, Ranger?”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course.”</p><p> </p><p>Jo calls out to Ash as she turns, “Hey, start taking orders!” and she walks so quickly toward the back end of the bar Cas has to almost jog to catch up with her. She removes a key from her cleavage as she reaches a dark door in the corner, and Cas’s eyes dart to find somewhere else to settle. Jo snorts, but she says nothing, unlocking the door and gesturing for Cas to go in ahead of her.</p><p> </p><p>He finds himself in a small office, only slightly larger than the storage closet at the park station. There’s a desk crammed against the wall, piled high with ledgers and receipts, with an old box TV covered in dust perched precariously near its edge. An ancient safe with rusted hinges sits in the corner. Jo sits at the desk, gesturing for Cas to take the chair across from her. Their knees almost touch when he sits.</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, I know it’s cramped in here,” Jo says, “but I’ve got a bar full of busybody gossips out there, and I don’t want what I have to say getting around to every no gooder on the mountain.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah.” Cas shifts in his seat.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know Dean’s real name,” she says, “or much about him at all, really. They don’t come here that often anymore.”</p><p> </p><p>“They?”</p><p> </p><p>She shrugs. “His family, I guess? He used to come in with another guy, tall, kinda serious, brown hair, and a woman, very pretty but sort of severe looking. She had dark hair. He mentioned once they were kin, but I don't know what the relation was. They looked to be around the same age. There were a few others who came in with them sometimes, but they always sat in the back corner booth, talking real quiet.”</p><p> </p><p>“More family?”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t think so. He came in once or twice with two kids with dark skin, they were maybe biracial? And a black couple another time. There were others, but I don’t remember what they looked like. The woman, though, the one I know was family — she was pregnant the last time they came in. Didn’t drink anything. I remember because Dean teased her for it.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas feels his stomach sink at that. <em>I was almost married, once</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“How do you know Dean and not the others?”</p><p> </p><p>Jo raises an eyebrow. “If I say a lady doesn’t tell, would that answer your question?”</p><p> </p><p>Cas’s face burns. He just manages to say, “Oh,” and hope it doesn’t come out strangled with jealousy.</p><p> </p><p>Jo laughs at his discomfort, taking it for prudishness. “We had fun once or twice. But he’s not the kinda guy who stays, if you know what I mean. Hell, I think he’s slept with half my regulars.” She shrugs again, oblivious to the churning in Cas’s gut. “He’s so handsome, though. Pretty charming, too. It’s hard to resist that.”</p><p> </p><p>He knows the feeling. Cas clears his throat. “So, you don’t know where he was from?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, we didn’t really do much talking.” She crosses her arms over her chest, almost protectively. “Look, about all I know is he kept strange company and he was good in bed. He told me he did odd jobs around town, but I’ve never seen him anywhere other than here. He was more interested in getting me to talk about myself, and when we — <em>y’know</em> — I’d just lost my mom, so I don't know. It was nice to have a stranger listen to me, for once, instead of the other way around. No one else wanted to hear the bartender’s tale of woe.”</p><p> </p><p>“I see.” Cas doesn’t do a great job of hiding his disappointment.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s not why I asked you to come back here, though.” Jo turns around to face her desk, the back of her chair bumping into Cas’s legs in the process. She opens a file drawer, which Cas sees is full of VHS tapes, lined up in order of dates handwritten on their covers. Jo pulls out one labeled “Oct. 1-7, 2008.”</p><p> </p><p>“We keep a security camera on loop outside the front door, and I save the tapes going a couple months back for occasions such as this,” she says, pulling the VHS out of its box and sticking it in the player under the old TV. It comes to life with a crackle of static. Jo hits the fast forward button, and Cas watches as people flood in and out of the Roadhouse in jerks and starts. Jo pauses once the timestamp in the corner reads “10/06/08 21:14.”</p><p> </p><p>“Here,” she points at the screen, where a man in a brown leather jacket, toboggan pulled low over his head, is entering the bar. “This guy. I’d never seen him before, but he came in asking for Dean. He was pretty pissed when I said I hadn’t heard from him in a while — like, unreasonably pissed.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas stares at the pixelated screen, thinks of the older man Jody mentioned, the one who went to the pawn store and the grocery market with Dean. The date on the tape is about a week after Dean’s assault.</p><p> </p><p>“What do you mean, ‘unreasonably pissed?’” he asks.</p><p> </p><p>“Like he started yelling in my bar.” She cocks a single, blonde eyebrow in the most unimpressed gesture Cas has ever seen — which is saying something, considering the household he grew up in and the man he currently works for. “Saying he knew Dean was a regular here, someone must have seen him. I handled it like I handle all the troublemakers.”</p><p> </p><p>“How’s that?”</p><p> </p><p>A flash of a grin lights Jo’s face. “I took a page out of my mama’s notebook and leveled a loaded shotgun at him. He took off.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas’s mouth gapes open, and he stammers, “Oh, uh—”</p><p> </p><p>“Look, I hope you didn’t come in here to tell me how to run my bar,” Jo says, “because I have a system, and it works. I take care of mine. And Dean’s been here enough he might as well fall under that category, even if I don’t know much about him.” She leans forward, fixing Cas with a level gaze. “But I do know this — that man, the asshole so desperate to find him? That’s Dean’s daddy.”</p><p> </p><p>“His— His father?” Cas thinks of Dean, face drawn, saying, <em>Gone</em>, <em>no one wants me</em>. Not true, apparently. “Are you sure?”</p><p> </p><p>“He said he was,” Jo says. “Looked more than old enough to be in any case.”</p><p> </p><p>“Did he say anything else?”</p><p> </p><p>“Nope, just, ‘I’m his father, I have a right to know where he is,’ that kind of crap.”</p><p> </p><p>A heat rises in Cas’s face, not borne of embarrassment or anxiety. An anger. Father or no father, he doesn’t like the very idea of this man, yelling and bloviating and looking for Dean when he clearly doesn't want to be found.</p><p> </p><p>“And this was October 6th, correct?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” She tilts her head, assessing him. “I can make a copy of the tape if you want. Unfortunately this is the best view I’ve got of him.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, please. Do you have a pen? I’ll write down the address to send it to.” Jo produces a notepad and a chewed stub of a pencil from beneath the pile of debris on her desk, and Cas scribbles down the address for the ranger station, along with his house phone. He doesn’t want to spook her by requesting to have it sent directly to Jody or Leahy. “Thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>They stand, barely a foot apart in the crowded room, and shake hands. Cas holds hers for a beat too long, says, “And Jo — if he comes back, can you give a call on the number I left?” She nods. “And don’t mention that I came by, or that you’ve heard anything about Dean.”</p><p> </p><p>“I won’t,” she says solemnly.</p><p> </p><p>He turns to leave, mind whirring, and she stops him with a quiet, “Hey, Ranger.” Cas turns, hand on the knob. Jo says, “Take care of him, all right?”</p><p> </p><p>Cas can only nod. He doesn’t know how she knew, only that she must have seen the longing written across his face.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>When Cas gets back to the station, Bobby and Dean are still elbows deep in the old park truck’s engine, covered in grease and sweat. Bobby’s griping at something — <em>shocker — </em>but the true surprise is he’s taking his anger out the inanimate cylinder he’s pried apart, not Dean. Dean, too, looks disgruntled, pointing insistently at an apartment crack in said cylinder while Bobby grumbles, “I know, I know, damned thing’s gonna cost an arm and a leg to replace.” Looks as though Bobby has forgiven Dean, then.</p><p> </p><p>Cas watches them from the doorway, silent, heart wrapped in a coil that’s sure to spring loose at any second now, taking the whole organ with it, plunged out of his chest and into the open air.</p><p> </p><p><em>Who are you?</em> he wonders, unnoticed and undisturbed, as Dean laughs when Bobby drops a wrench on his toe, cursing and swatting at Dean. <em>Where did you come from? Who is chasing you?</em></p><p> </p><p>He knows anyone could ask the same questions of him. If Dean asked, would he tell? Would he go beyond the surface, the bare minimum, the story of family rejection that’s true but not the <em>entire</em> truth?</p><p> </p><p>Cas doesn’t know. He wonders if that makes him a hypocrite. He decides to stop lurking, holding up the greasy bags of burgers he picked up from McDonald’s and stepping into the light. “I’ve got food, if you two can drop the car parts for two seconds!”</p><p> </p><p>Dean turns and smiles at him, a black smudge of oil or grease streaked across his nose, white teeth gleaming, and he looks glorious.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Agent Leahy texts two days later, while Cas is at work. He’s setting up a trifold display on animals native to the Appalachians for an incoming class of third graders when he hears his phone beep.</p><p> </p><p><b><em>LEAHY: </em></b><em>Novak, I’m coming by the park station in 10. Is Dean there? </em>10:15 a.m.</p><p> </p><p>Cas snorts. He texted her about what he found at the Roadhouse days ago. Of course she wouldn’t respond until now.</p><p> </p><p><b><em>CASTIEL: </em></b><em>No, he’s at my house, probably entertaining the cat. Do you need to see him? </em>10:16 a.m.</p><p> </p><p>He continues to set up the table as he awaits a response, spreading out conservation pamphlets he knows the nine-year-olds won’t take next to a stack of pre-packaged trail mix he knows they will.</p><p> </p><p><b><em>LEAHY: </em></b><em>Not at this time. I only need to see you. </em>10:19 a.m.</p><p> </p><p>Cas frowns. Why would she need to see him without Dean around?</p><p> </p><p><b><em>CASTIEL: </em></b><em>I’ve got a kid’s tour to give in 30 minutes. </em>10:19 a.m.</p><p> </p><p><b><em>LEAHY: </em></b><em>I’ll make it quick. </em>10:20 a.m.</p><p> </p><p>She arrives at 10:24, exactly one minute early. Cas refrains from lecturing her on texting while driving, leading Leahy back to the office. She eyes the display as they go, mouth quirking into a quick almost-smile.</p><p> </p><p>“Do the kids actually pay attention to your presentations?”</p><p> </p><p>“Sometimes, especially when there are animals involved.” Cas sits at his desk, and Leahy takes Bobby’s empty seat across from him.</p><p> </p><p>“Where’s Singer?” she asks, settling back into the chair. She’s so petite her feet don’t quite touch the ground when she sits, and the image of her dress shoes swinging an inch or so above the ground is oddly incongruent to Cas, like watching a child in grown up clothes, though he knows full well Leahy is anything but. Indeed, she’s all business, pulling a file out of her satchel even as she waits for Cas to answer.</p><p> </p><p>“He’s out on patrol,” Cas says. “He’s not a fan of giving tours, so he tends to leave them to me. Why did you want to see me?”</p><p> </p><p>Leahy brandishes the file. “Public school records. Your text gave me an idea. I thought while we waited for a copy of the Roadhouse video I might see if our Dean grew up here — it would make sense, if he has family in the area. I’ve spent the last two days going to local districts and asking for copies of the records of kids who fit his age bracket.”</p><p> </p><p>She passes over what looks like a photo copy of an old yearbook page. Judging by the bright patterned background, Cas guesses it’s from the ‘90s.</p><p> </p><p>“A Dean Smith attended five different school districts in the county from third grade to his sophomore year of high school.” Leahy points at the page Cas is holding. “That’s the last school picture of him, age fifteen, in 1995. He dropped out in the middle of the school year and didn’t enroll anywhere else.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas looks down. There, in the last row, wearing an impish grin, is a familiar face. “Oh,” is all he manages to say. Dean is so young in the picture, wearing a green shirt with a thick, gold chain necklace tucked under his collar. His hair looks lighter, more blond than dirty blond and split in that popular ‘90s Leo DiCaprio flop, but his smile is the same, as are the freckles dotting his nose and cheekbones.</p><p> </p><p>“His parents were a Silas and Donna Smith,” Leahy adds as shifts through the records in her lap, “and I don’t think they really exist.”</p><p> </p><p>“What? What do you mean, they don’t exist?”</p><p> </p><p>“I mean I can’t find record of them anywhere other than on his enrollment papers. They used a consistent alibi for sure, but there are no drivers’ licenses, no real phone numbers, nothing to back up their IDs.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas looks up from the picture of young Dean, and he asks, “Why would someone use an alibi to enroll their child in public school?”</p><p> </p><p>Leahy’s face is graver than he’s ever seen it when she says, “It could mean nothing — with people in the hill country, you never know if they’re just off the grid or not. But, realistically, the likelihood of not even a birth certificate or anything… I can think of a few reasons for that, none of them good. Unfortunately no one at the schools remembers much about Dean other than he was kind of a loner, and no one could recall anything about his parents.”</p><p> </p><p>“Great. That’s… great.” Cas runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “So there’s no way to tell if the man at the Roadhouse was actually Dean’s father.”</p><p> </p><p>“There’s a pretty obvious way to tell,” Leahy says. “You could just ask Dean.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know you think it’s easier for me to get things out of him—”</p><p> </p><p>“Is it not?”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Cas concedes, “so he does tell me things. But nothing big, nothing— Eileen, I still don’t know who attacked him, and I’m not getting anywhere asking directly. He talks when he wants to talk.”</p><p> </p><p>“And he’s silent the rest of the time,” Leahy says. “I know. Cas, I read your message. The bartender says this man was angry, really angry. I think there’s a good chance he’s our perpetrator — or at least one of them, anyway. I need Dean’s help to find him, or—” Her voice trails off, and she shrugs. “Let’s just say I’m running out of options and the Bureau is running out of patience.”</p><p> </p><p>She stands and starts to gather her things, sweeping the records up and putting them back into her file. As Leahy picks up her shoulder bag, Cas holds out the copy of the yearbook page.</p><p> </p><p>“Here,” he says, but she shakes her head.</p><p> </p><p>“Keep it.” Leahy gives him a tight smile. “If you show it to him, he might recognize we’re making at least a little headway.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas doesn’t respond, haltingly pulling the copy back into his lap. Leahy whisks out the door without so much as a goodbye. He folds the paper, picture side down, and sticks it in his jacket pocket. He doesn’t know whether he’ll show it to Dean, or keep it to himself.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Dean comes to the park station with Cas every day now, and Cas knows that Bobby is paying him, under the table and out of his own pocket, for the work he does around the office.</p><p> </p><p>“What?” Bobby asks when Cas confronts him about it. “I put him on the payroll of Singer Salvage Co. I ain’t takin’ no damned government funding.” He frowns as if the very idea offends him, and Cas knows it’s not because he’s against embezzling federal funds. Bobby hates that his own checks are cashed by so-called “spineless, worthless government lackeys.”</p><p> </p><p>“Bobby,” Cas says softly, trying to stay out of earshot of Dean, who’s humming to the radio while he pieces the engine of the service truck back together. “<em>We’re</em> government funded. We’re required to bid for services above a certain dollar amount, and that includes truck and building maintenance.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know that.” Bobby looks at Cas like he’s a supreme <em>idjit</em>. “Look, Cas, I’m not giving him much. But the kid needs some walking around money for when he does get out on his own, and I’ve seen how he drags his feet about accepting anything from you. And he’s very attached to you.” Bobby raises his eyebrows, and Cas looks away,guilty. “The only way he’ll take cash from me — and he barely takes any as is — is if he feels like he’s earned it.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas supposes he should be glad Bobby’s warmed up to Dean again, and that Dean is feeling useful and somewhat content, but he’d like to keep his job. He starts to say, “It has to stop,” but that’s when Dean pokes his head in from the garage, notepad in hand. He smiles, bright and guileless, when he sees Cas.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Hey Bobby want me to make sandwiches?” </em>Is already written on the pad, and under it he scribbles, <em>“Cas BLT?”</em></p><p> </p><p>“Sounds good,” Cas says, because he’s weak, and Dean’s bounding off to the kitchen to make lunch.</p><p> </p><p>Dean likes to be useful, of that there is no doubt. He cleans the his room and the hall bath at Cas’s house religiously, makes coffee every morning, always rushes to give Bobby or Garth a hand with anything they need at the station. Cas can’t bring himself to take that away from Dean, and Bobby knows it. He claps Cas on the back as he starts toward the kitchen, says quietly, “If he sticks around long enough for us to find out who he really is, I’m gonna get that boy a real job.”</p><p> </p><p>As he watches Bobby walk away, Cas thinks Dean’s best gift might be his ability to make anyone love him, even when he’s constantly holding bits of himself back.</p><p> </p><p>So who would want to hurt him?</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  
</p><p>Four days after Leahy’s visit, Cas decides to ask Dean about the man at the Roadhouse.</p><p> </p><p>It’s nighttime, the sun well past set beyond Beinn Diabhal. Cas can hear an owl hooting somewhere back in the woods over the sound of water splashing in the sink as Dean cleans the plates from their late dinner. Cas had to hike one of the trails at sunset to find a group of straggling hikers and bring them back in, so Dean waited on him in the office. They didn’t make it home until after 8.</p><p> </p><p>Cas watches him scrub the skillet, rinsing out the oil left behind from the meat they’d cooked for a quick meal of tacos, and he thinks <em>I wish every night were like this</em>.</p><p> </p><p>It’s a dangerous thought to have, irresponsible and reckless, and Cas knows it. Dean might look like he belongs in Cas’s house, move with ease around the kitchen and take up the entire couch during their movie nights; he might act at home and smile his rare smiles for Cas alone, but this isn’t permanent. Dean tried to leave once and will leave again, and here Cas is, forgetting to guard his heart against Dean’s charms, enjoying this slow slide into a domestic lifestyle and falling in love with someone who’s only here with him because he has nowhere else to go.</p><p> </p><p>So Cas forces himself to shatter the calm.</p><p> </p><p>“Dean, I need to talk to you.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean looks up from where he’s pouring a cup full of oil into the trash. Cas sets aside the plate he’s drying and leans back against the counter.</p><p> </p><p>“I— I went to the Roadhouse a few days ago.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s mouth parts, and he says, “What?” His voice is sounding better, clearer — it’s smooth and low, beautiful really, and he only ever speaks to Cas. Cas almost wishes he weren’t speaking now, so he wouldn’t have to face the note of accusation in Dean’s voice.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry; it’s— We needed new leads, and I didn’t want to push you.”</p><p> </p><p>“So you went behind my back to ask strangers at some bar about me.” It’s worse than accusation, Cas realizes. Dean is hurt. He hurt Dean.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry,” he repeats worthlessly.</p><p> </p><p>A silence stretches between them, lasting so long as to be uncomfortable, before Dean says, “Cas, tell me no one in there knew who I was.”</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t.” Dean’s eyes fall closed, resigned. “It was just the bartender, Jo. She was worried about you. But when I told her what happened, she told me someone had been there looking for you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Who?”</p><p> </p><p>“A man who said he was your father.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s pushes away from the sink with a garbled curse and begins to pace the kitchen. It’s small and cluttered, and he can only make it four or five steps before he turns back around, eyes wild and face pale, frantic as an animal trapped in a cage.</p><p> </p><p>“Dean.” Cas tries to reach out and touch his arm but Dean spins away from him, hands coming up to cover his face, then rubbing up until he’s pulling almost violently at his own hair.</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck,” Dean says, tears in his eyes, and Cas feels a vicious stab of self-loathing. “He’ll find me.”</p><p> </p><p>“He’s not going to find you,” Cas says, and though the words are hollow he hopes they’re true.</p><p> </p><p>“This is why—” There’s a tear rolling down Dean’s cheek on one side, and another threatening to break loose on the other. His voice catches and he opens his mouth and nothing comes out, and Cas hates himself for doing this to him.</p><p> </p><p>“He doesn’t know.” Cas takes a step forward, into Dean’s personal space, though he knows he doesn’t deserve to be there. “She won’t tell him. She told me because she thought I could help you, and that’s all I want to do.” This, at least, is an irrefutable truth.</p><p> </p><p>Dean chokes out, “They know I’m alive. He’ll find out you were there, he’ll find me, he’ll find you—” Cas reaches out and holds Dean’s wrists, fingers loosely encircling them, and Dean lets him. His head slumps forward, lands on Cas’s shoulder. Cas can feel the wetness of his cheeks through his shirt, feel his chest hitch as he takes in breath after frantic breath.</p><p> </p><p>“I can protect you,” Cas tells him, one hand moving of its own accord to Dean’s back, rubbing up and down in a soothing motion. “Leahy and Jody and Bobby, they’d all protect you if you’d only let them.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know,” Dean says, face smushed against Cas’s shirt, voice muffled and raw. “I know.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas holds him as best he can, letting Dean hide, and he hopes Dean still feels safe here in spite of Cas’s mistakes. Safe enough to answer one question, at least.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you think it was your father?”</p><p> </p><p>Silence, Dean’s head pressing harder into Cas’s shoulder, then a soft, “Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>“Did he do this to you?” Cas’s hand finds the faint scar on the back of Dean’s neck where the rope twisted into his skin.</p><p><br/>Dean doesn’t look up as he says, “Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas has felt truly, righteously furious a few times in his life — when he watched gunfire rip through cities, not discriminating between civilian and militia; when his brother, who he’d admired and adored, told him, “You’re not one of us,” because Cas dared to defy him. This, though — this is a rage like he’s never known, deeper and wilder because it’s not for people he will never meet or even for himself. He is enraged on Dean’s behalf, because he loves Dean, and someone who should have loved Dean hung him from a tree to die a terrible, violent death.</p><p> </p><p>Cas lets go of Dean’s wrist, his hand forming into a fist. He forces himself to keep his breath even, to keep his other hand lightly on Dean’s nape, to keep his voice as controlled as he can when he says, “Then that man does not deserve your protection.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not him I’m protecting,” Dean whispers, clinging to Cas with his hands now fisted in his shirt. Cas lets Dean hang there, pressed against him, forcing himself to be a safe haven instead of the monsoon he very much wants to be.</p><p> </p><p>When Dean lets go, hands unclenching from Cas’s shirt, eyes watery and unfocused, Cas stays where he’s at. Dean opens his mouth, but no words come out. He grimaces in frustration, and Cas rubs his neck once before letting go. “It’s okay. I think— I think we should go to bed. That’s enough for one night.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean nods, wiping at his eyes. Cas turns off the light in the kitchen, and together they walk down the hall to Dean’s room. Dean touches Cas’s arm, soft and light above the crook of his elbow, before he goes in.</p><p> </p><p>Cas stays up late into the night, sitting in the living room and watching the road. He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for, but he promised Dean he would keep him safe. That’s one promise he intends to keep.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Cas takes the next day off work. He’s stockpiled days off over the years — he never vacations, has no one to go with, and he’s rarely ever sick — and there’s nothing going on at the park Bobby can’t handle for one day, though when Cas calls him he grumbles about how he’ll miss having Dean around.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m taking him to Bolar Mountain, to Lake Moomaw.” Cas is packing what they’ll need for the trip — a cooler with water and beer and sandwiches; sunscreen; fishing rods. He doesn’t particularly enjoy fishing himself, but maybe Dean might.</p><p> </p><p>“Bit of a drive,” Bobby says.</p><p> </p><p>“We’re making a day of it.” Dean enters the kitchen, wearing the clothes Cas bought him, looking hopeful yet uncertain as he holds one of Cas’s old fishing caps in his hands. “Won’t be back until late tonight.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, I won’t send the dogs out,” Bobby grumbles. “You two idjits enjoy your vacation.” He hangs up. Cas smiles and shakes his head at the phone.</p><p> </p><p>“What’d Bobby say?” Dean’s voice is quiet, hoarse, like he used it all up last night.</p><p> </p><p>“He called both of us <em>idjits</em>. That’s how you know he truly likes you.”</p><p> </p><p>A small smile flickers across Dean’s face, and Cas smiles in return.</p><p> </p><p>They head out early, and Cas, tired from the night before, even agrees to let Dean drive with a warning of “Don’t get pulled over.” He sleeps, the motion of the car soothing, safe in Dean’s capable hands.</p><p> </p><p>They don’t stop until they reach the park, driving to the cabin on the lake where Cas arranged for them to rent a boat for the day. As Cas makes the down payment he watches Dean out of the corner of his eye. He’s walked away to stand at the end of the water, looking out across the smooth, deep blue surface of the lake with his hands in his jacket pockets. He closes his eyes, and Cas is tempted to take his phone out of his pocket and get a photo of Dean at peace for once. But then the boat guy is back with the liability waiver, and Cas turns away.</p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t afford much, just a simple flat boat, but it’s good for fishing. There’s plenty of room in the hull below their feet for the cooler and their gear, and though the engine sputters a few times on start-up, it doesn’t die. Cas steers them out onto the lake with Dean at the bow, wind whipping at his jacket.</p><p> </p><p>Cas visited Lake Moomaw once before this trip, almost three years ago. The National Park Service held a “retreat” here for all its employees in the area. They’d spent most of their time cooped up indoors for seminars and training sessions, rather ironically, with only a water rescue training course held on the lake itself. Cas didn’t have much time to appreciate the beauty of the place while trying not to drown, but now he takes time to admire the smooth blue surface of the lake and the rolling hills reflected in it.</p><p> </p><p>Mostly, though, he admires Dean.</p><p> </p><p>He looks good — healthy. His face has filled out with all the food Bobby’s been sneaking him; his dark blond hair shines in the golden light of the afternoon. The bruising around his neck has faded, and Cas can’t see the faint scaring from the rope burn from where he sits. He turns to Cas and smiles, small and uncertain but a smile all the same. “Hold on,” Cas says. “Let me get a picture to send to Bobby.”</p><p> </p><p>When he snaps the picture, Dean actually laughs, eyes crinkling and smile wide. Cas stares at the photo on his phone a beat too long, mesmerized, before Dean asks, “Can I see it?”</p><p> </p><p>They eat their sandwiches on the lake, lazily watching their lines bob on the water, unnoticed by the fish. When they’re done with lunch Cas reaches into the bottom of the cooler, digging out his carefully planned surprise.</p><p><br/>“Cas,” Dean says, already reaching for the tin, “did you seriously bring pie?”</p><p> </p><p>“I did,” Cas confirms. “Specially made by one Deputy Donna Hascum, who I’m told has quite the talent for making apple pie.”</p><p> </p><p>“When did you have time to pick this up?” Dean’s using one of the spare knives to dig out a slice.</p><p> </p><p>“She brought it over a few days ago, but I wanted to save it for a special occasion.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh yeah?” Dean asks around a mouthful of cinnamon apples. “What’s the occasion?”</p><p> </p><p>Cas shrugs. “A nice day on the lake?” and Dean shakes his head, but he’s still smiling.</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s on his third slice when his line starts to pull taut. He shoves what’s left of his pie in his mouth — and if that doesn’t dissuade Cas from finding him attractive, nothing will — and reaches for the reel. The boat rocks as Dean starts to pull in the line, grunting as the fish on the other end fights for its life.</p><p> </p><p>“God damn,” Dean says through his teeth. “I think we’ve got a big one.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas shifts in place, putting more weight toward the middle of the boat to keep them balanced as Dean wrestles with his catch. Dean is putting his back into it now, hand winding on the reel and teeth gritted as he pulls and pulls. The boat rocks, and Cas throws a hand out to steady himself. In the next second, the line snaps, and they’re both thrown back as Dean falls into the hull with a muffled “Fuck! Cas lands in a heap on top of him.</p><p> </p><p>They both scramble to hold on to each other as the boat leans dangerously to one side, water slopping over the edge, before it seems to balance itself and tilt back the other way.</p><p> </p><p>Cas can’t help but laugh at Dean’s disgruntled frown, rolling off him and offering a hand to help him up.</p><p> </p><p>“Bested by a fish, huh?”</p><p> </p><p>“That was no fucking fish,” Dean grumbles. “That was fucking Nessie.” He glares out at the water like it’s insulted his honor and yells, “I hope you choke on that worm!”</p><p> </p><p>Cas laughs harder at the sight of Dean, furious face reflected in the now-tranquil lake, water stains all over his shirt and jeans.</p><p> </p><p>“Shut up, Cas!”<br/><br/></p><p>“Sorry, I just—” He shakes his head, still grinning. “I thought fishing was supposed to be relaxing?”</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe if the fish doesn’t try to drag you to your death,” Dean mutters, but he’s stopped trying to glare the lake into submission. “I have no desire to be Mr. Limpet’d.”</p><p> </p><p>“Mr. Limpet?”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t worry about it,” Dean says, and he shivers as he brushes water droplets off his shirt. “That’s one pop culture reference I’d pay to forget.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah, but Dean, you can’t judge me for not getting your references and then refuse to explain.”</p><p> </p><p>“No, trust me, man, this is—” He pauses, eyes on the hull.</p><p> </p><p>“Dean?”</p><p> </p><p>“Where did that come from?” Dean’s voice is low and stilted, like it is when he’s having trouble speaking. Cas is about to ask what he’s talking about, but then a glint of gold in the hull catches his eye.</p><p> </p><p>The amulet he found on the mountain.</p><p> </p><p>Cas pats his pockets, finds them empty. He must have moved it to this jacket; he had planned to show it to Jody at one point and then forgot about it. It must have fallen out when they fell into the hull.</p><p> </p><p>Dean picks it up before Cas can say anything, turning it over in his hands with an unreadable expression on his face.</p><p> </p><p>“Where did you get this?” he asks, looking up at Cas.</p><p> </p><p>“I found it.” Cas’s throat feels dry. “Bobby and I found it, I mean. Off the trail where I found you.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean cradles the amulet in his palms as if it’s something precious. Something familiar. The look on his face is unlike any Cas has seen him wear before — his mouth parted in shock, eyes slightly watery.</p><p> </p><p>“Dean? Is it yours?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” Dean’s fist closes around the amulet. He swallows hard. “I thought I’d lost it.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas looks from Dean’s fist and the string hanging between his knuckles to his face and he puts two and two together. “It was you. You followed me on the trail.” Dean stares at the floor of the hull. “You ran from me. Why?”</p><p> </p><p>Dean knocks his boot against the side of the hull, a nervous fidget. “It’s not like I knew who you were.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas remains silent when Dean’s eyes drift up to his face. Dean sighs, as if there’s nothing heavier than what he needs to say next. “I was planning to run away. The park is not that far from— where I lived.” Cas notices he doesn’t say <em>home</em>. “I needed to know where the trails went. You happened to be there, and you were wearing a Park Ranger jacket. I followed you.”</p><p> </p><p>“You scared me half to death,” Cas accuses, heart rate picking up at the mere memory of the night. Trapped in his hammock, blood thudding in his ears, watching the dark shape coalesce at the end of the trail. It seems absurd, how his body still reacts to the fear, even though now he knows it was only Dean and not some killer.</p><p> </p><p>Dean ducks his head down, and Cas instantly feels guilty. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I was trying to decide whether to ask you for help. Then you went for the gun, and I panicked.”</p><p> </p><p>A breeze picks up across the lake, setting small waves in motion. <em>Don’t rock the boat, </em>Cas thinks, as if in reflex. Michael used to say that to him, whenever he thought Cas was more trouble than he was worth. <em>Don’t rock the boat. Don’t come out to your unit. Don’t leave your military career. Don’t come back to this house. Don’t rock the boat. </em>Dean isn’t finished talking, and Cas realizes he might be on the verge of hearing the full story of what happened to his friend. The boat is already rocking, and Cas isn’t sure he’s ready for the waves.</p><p> </p><p>But he asks for them anyway. “Why were you running?”</p><p> </p><p>Dean lets a hand hang outside the boat, trailing in the water as he chooses his words. Cas can see the struggle, the threat of his throat closing up before anything gets out. He sees Dean fight through it.</p><p> </p><p>“I was… raised a certain way. Certain things were expected me of me,” Dean says, and the shadowed language reminds Cas of the way he speaks of his own family, a decade removed. “My father—” Dean struggles here, and Cas barely resists the urge to reach out to him. “—is not a good man. I couldn’t follow him anymore. So I made plans to run, and he found out.” He looks Cas in the eye. “I was punished for it. And he has still has other people with him, people I care about. People I can’t risk by leading the feds back to him. That’s why I haven’t told Agent Leahy what happened to me. She can’t protect them. I couldn’t protect them.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean is shaking now, and he’s on the verge of tears. Again, Cas’s chest swells with rage toward those who hurt him. He tries to wrangle it back, for Dean’s sake if nothing else. He says, injecting a calm he doesn’t feel into his voice, “He’s just a man. I understand your hesitation, but maybe she could help if you told her the situation.</p><p> </p><p>“Cas, you don’t understand at all,” Dean says, and his voice is hopeless. Bleak. “It’s not just my father who’s after me. Agent Leahy has no idea what mess she stepped into when she took my case. You have no idea.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then tell me!” Cas pleads. “I want to know. I want to help.”</p><p> </p><p>For a moment, Cas is sure Dean is going to fall silent again. He’s terrified he’s pushed too far, pushed Dean straight back into the darkness he’s been crawling out of.</p><p> </p><p>But then Dean says, just above a whisper, “I ran away from a cult.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Part III: The Tower</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dean is quiet for most of their drive home, leaning against the window of Cas’s truck and fogging up the glass with his breath. Cas doesn’t know how to break the silence. He’d imagined Dean had some secret, imagined it had to do with his father, and Cas thought one day Dean would come clean and they’d discuss their next steps together. But this feels beyond his ability to fix. Cas doesn’t know much about cults beyond news reels of the Heaven’s Gate suicides and the Branch Davidian complex burning in Texas, but he knows how deadly they can be. He risks a glance at Dean, looking for a peek of the faint scar under his jacket collar. He knows how deadly this cult was for Dean.</p><p> </p><p>His phone beeps while he’s trying to decide what to say, and Cas asks Dean, “Could you see who that is?”</p><p> </p><p>Dean picks his phone up and opens it. “A text message from Leahy. She says, ‘The video footage from the bar is too blurry to use for ID.’” Dean looks up at Cas. “This is about what you found at the Roadhouse, isn’t it?” He sounds resigned.</p><p> </p><p>“Jo Harvelle gave us security camera footage from the night your father came looking for you,” Cas admits with the same guilty swoop in his stomach.</p><p> </p><p>“She’s not gonna quit, is she.” It’s said like a statement, a pure and simple fact.</p><p> </p><p>“Not until her bosses force her off the case,” Cas says, “which could be any day now.” He grips the wheel tighter, digging his fingernails into the leather as he carefully weighs his next words. “Dean, I’m glad you told me about your father. It’s given me a lot of… perspective. I understand now why you’re afraid to tell Leahy everything.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean doesn’t say anything, picking at a spot of dried mud on his jeans.</p><p> </p><p>“She might be able to help, though,” he continues, mouth dry. “If Leahy knew what we’re dealing with, she could plan accordingly. And if you continue to give her nothing, eventually she’s going to have to let the case drop. Then you may lose your chance to bring charges against your father for what he’s done to you.” Cas pauses. “And what he’s done to the others.” It’s risky to say, because he doesn’t really know anything about Dean’s father other than he’s a monster who tried to kill Dean and he doesn’t know if that violence extends to anyone else but Cas is willing to bet it does. And he’s willing to bet Dean is more likely to speak up to protect someone else than he is to protect himself.</p><p> </p><p>Dean is quiet for several seconds, staring out at the road. “I’m not a runner,” he says. “I don’t— I don’t run away from shit, that’s not who I am.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas says, “That’s not what I think—”</p><p> </p><p>“No, I— I did run this time, though.” Dean’s jaw clenches. “I had to. He <em>made</em> me. I was gonna face him, Cas. I had a plan. I’d been planning for months. I was going to get everyone who wanted out, out. I was going to save them.” A tear winds its way down Dean’s cheekbone. “I was going to save us all, and he caught me. Threw me in a hole in the ground, starved me for days, then let me out and told me to run or die. I didn’t know what else to do. I left them all behind, and he still caught me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Dean.” Cas wants to reach out and take his hand, but he doesn’t.</p><p> </p><p>“I left them.” Dean’s voice breaks. “I’m safe now, they’re trapped with him, and I’m <em>still running</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t,” Cas warns, and he does grip Dean’s shoulder with his free hand. “I’m not trying to make you feel guilty. You are not the guilty one here. Do you know that?”</p><p> </p><p>Dean shakes his head. “I am. I was going to get on a bus and leave. I spent my entire life standing there and taking everything he threw at me, I spent all this time waiting for my chance, and then in the end I’m a fucking coward who took the easy way out.”</p><p> </p><p>“You were <em>hanged</em>,” Cas says, incredulous. “That’s not the easy way out!”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>You</em> were the easy way out,” Dean says. “I’ve been sitting here, doing nothing, letting you protect me, thinking my silence is protecting them… but what if it’s not? What if you’re right, and Leahy can help? Then I’ve wasted a month wallowing and not even being able to talk like a normal person while the rest of my family is still suffering under his thumb.”</p><p> </p><p>This is spiraling out of control, and it strikes Cas he may have just colossally fucked up. He keeps trying to do right by Dean, and <em>he</em> <em>keeps fucking up.</em></p><p> </p><p>“Dean, you’ve been abused and traumatized,” Cas interjects, trying to wrestle this conversation back from Dean’s self-loathing. “You need to cut yourself some slack.” Cas knows he could never take his own advice, but that’s beside the point. “I would like to see justice done for you, and perhaps that’s led me to selfishly push you too hard. I want to help you, and I want to help your friends, but I don’t want to do it at the expense of your well-being.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t care about my well-being,” Dean snaps, which is… Painful to hear, to say the least.</p><p> </p><p>“I do,” Cas says, and he can’t seem to help raising his voice slightly right back. “So I’ll support you in whatever decision you make. But you don’t have to rescue everyone without rescuing yourself first.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t want to run,” Dean says, shoulders slumping in exhaustion. “I’m so tired of feeling scared all the time. I want to face him, but— Cas, he’s not gonna go down without a fight. And I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas watches the road unfold before them, the winding black asphalt and pale yellow centerline dappled in fading sunlight coming in through the trees. He wishes Dean could run — could run away with him, to some place where maybe they’d both finally feel safe and at peace. That’s not how life works, though, and Cas knows this all too well. Because Dean might not be a runner, but Cas is. And life has managed to catch him no matter where he goes.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you want to try to explain this to Agent Leahy?” he asks.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know,” Dean says stiffly. “Only if she promises not to rush in and try to arrest him right away.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sure she’ll understand your reticence,” Cas says, and Dean doesn’t respond.</p><p> </p><p>The drive back seems to take hours; the terse silence in the car seems impenetrable. Cas feels so tightly wound he’s sure the slightest noise would send him jumping in his seat, and Dean’s back to leaning against the car window, eyes shut tight. Cas doubts he’s sleeping. He wishes he could take the pain away, but he can’t. He keeps making it worse.</p><p> </p><p>They arrive home at dusk. Gracie is walking along the ledge of the living room window, her tiny body pressed between the blinds and the glass, meowing at them in outrage. She hates being left home alone all day. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” Cas mutters, fumbling with his keys at the door. He hears Dean come up the porch steps behind him, lugging the cooler in his arms. Gracie continues to whine.</p><p> </p><p>When he opens the door, she lets a particularly loud screech of displeasure before bolting toward the back bedroom and her food bowl. Probably hearing the yowl from a quarter-mile away, the neighbor’s bloodhound starts howling. Dean drops the cooler onto the porch with a <em>bang.</em></p><p> </p><p>Cas jumps at the sound, spinning around with keys held out like a tiny switchblade. He drops them the second he sees Dean on his knees, head buried in his hands. He’s shaking.</p><p> </p><p>“Dean?” Cas kneels, placing a hand on Dean’s back. Dean starts at the touch, and Cas moves back.</p><p> </p><p>“The fucking—” Dean pushes up, shoves past Cas and into the house. Cas follows, leaving the overturned cooler on the porch. “The dogs, I can’t—” Cas, understanding, closes the door behind him, blocking out the hound’s howls.</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s still shaking as they enter the kitchen, fumbling as he pulls a plastic cup out of the cabinet and turns the sink on. Cas waits, leaning against the wall and watching as Dean downs two cups and then runs his hand through his hair, taking deep breaths.</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry,” he says after a moment, as if a panic attack is something he has to apologize for. “I’ve never been a dog person.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas thinks of the bite marks on Dean’s legs when they first took him to the hospital. “Me neither,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to be sorry. It’s a standard reaction to trauma.” His VA-appointed therapist had told him as much a long time ago, before he started skipping appointments and chose ‘be forever lonely in the woods’ as his go-to coping method.</p><p> </p><p>Dean stares out the window at Beinn Diabhal as the edges of the mountain begin to blur into the sky in the low light.</p><p> </p><p>“Not being able to talk to anyone but you is probably not a standard reaction to stress,” he mutters.</p><p> </p><p>Tran had said as much. She’d also said Dean could use therapy. Feeling like an utter hypocrite, Cas says, “There’s a woman in town who might be able to help with that. A therapist named Pamela Barnes. I’ve never seen her, but I’ve heard good things. From Bobby, of all people. If you can believe it.” Cas knows Bobby saw Pamela for a while after his wife died, and he knows the two are still good friends. An endorsement from Bobby is such a rarity it’s worth taking seriously.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know,” Dean says, but he turns around to face Cas, leaning against the sink. “I can’t even tell Leahy what happened, and I can’t talk to Bobby when I know he’s a good guy. How the hell am I supposed to open up to a total stranger?”</p><p> </p><p>Cas shrugs. “It might be good practice. For talking, I mean. You don’t have to give her your life story, and even if you do she’d be bound by confidentiality to keep it between the two of you. If you want, I could schedule an appointment. Maybe you could try it before we meet with Leahy again.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s quiet for so long Cas is sure he’s decided not to talk to Cas anymore, either. “I’ve done it before,” he says, in attempt to keep the conversation going. “Therapy, I mean. I had some issues after leaving the military that I never really took care of, but it got worse when…”</p><p> </p><p>He swallows, hard. Cas doesn’t talk about this, ever, but today Dean’s laid it all out there for him. The least he can do is show some reciprocity. “My first job in the parks service, I worked in a much larger park than this one. There was a river running through it, and it would flood in the rainy season.” If he closes his eyes, he can still hear the roar of the water tumbling down the mountainside. “There were warning signs posted everywhere telling campers when to avoid the river, but we couldn’t really keep people from trying to fish or even kayak on it. The emergency calls when the waters were high were a daily occurrence.”</p><p> </p><p>He fished more than one stray kayaker out of the water. That’s not what Cas remembers about that park, though. “One week in the summer, we had a terrible storm. It lasted for days, just endless rain and lightning. We cleared the remote campgrounds closer to the river, brought everyone down to the main camps closer to the park offices. But we—” He thinks of slipping in the mud, rain so thick he could barely see. “Somehow we missed four campers. One night, the storm got even worse, and the river completely brokeits banks. It flooded the whole campsite. One of the campers was in the bathhouse at the time, and the flood waters just missed him. He ran two miles to get help for his friends, who were trapped on high ground just above their camp.”</p><p> </p><p>“We assembled a search and rescue party,” Cas continues,“and we slogged our way uphill to the campsite — or as close to as we could get. We could hear them screaming for help, but…” In the dark, the rescue team almost missed the wall of mud flowing toward them. It was a miracle their little group had been able to scramble up a boulder and avoid the devastation that followed. “The site was hit by a mudslide. We couldn’t get to them. Had to be rescued ourselves the next morning. All three of them died.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas’s own hands are shaking now. He clenches them into fists. “So, yeah. I did therapy for a couple of weeks afterward, then moved to a new park. Probably just should have continued the therapy.” He tries for a smile, but it falls flat. Dean watches him with sad eyes, silent. Cas can hear Gracie, forgotten but still yowling from the bedroom. He’s about to go tend to her when Dean says, “I guess I might as well give it a shot.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas blinks. “Really?”</p><p> </p><p>Dean gives him a flat look. “Don’t act so shocked. You’ll make me change my mind.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Cas says, and he manages to give Dean a real smile. “I’ll call Pamela.”</p><p> </p><p>As he turns to attend to his angry cat, Dean says, “It’s not your fault, man.” Cas looks back over his shoulder, and Dean shrugs. “You can’t rescue everyone.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas nods, though he knows it’s not that simple for either of them. Responsibility is in their blood, like it or not. They may not be able to rescue everyone, but Cas knows they’ll try.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It’s getting colder. Cas is waiting for Dean outside Pamela Barnes’ office, sitting ona park bench and watching cars enter and exit the strip mall parking lot. Pam’s practice is located between a Chinese restaurant and a mattress store, and Cas’s stomach rumbles loudly every time the door to the restaurant opens. He glances at his watch. Dean’s only been inside for twenty minutes. Forty more to go. He zips up his coat.</p><p> </p><p>He could wait in the sitting area, but Cas met Pam once at a party and they did not hit it off. He was drunk, she was drunk, and somehow they ended up in an argument about religion. Cas was still knee deep in reflex Catholicism, and when Pam questioned why a just God allowed bad things to happen, he’d responded, “All things work together for good to the glory of God.” Which was when Pam took off her dark sunglasses and revealed it’d been a very personal question — she was blinded in a freak accident earlier that year. So she hadn’t liked his non-answer. Looking back on it now, Cas cringes. He wouldn’t like that answer, either, but he was clinging to any comfort he could find at the time. He used to believe God cared, but he’s not so sure anymore.</p><p> </p><p>Pam has probably forgiven him by now, but he’s not willing to test it. If she’s still angry, he doesn’t want it to reflect the way she treats Dean. He stuffs his hands under his armpits and blows out a fog of hot air. Someone is leaving the Chinese place with takeout, plastic bags of moo shu pork and dumplings and fried rice hanging off their arms. Cas watches them go, envious. He looks at his watch again. Dean’s been inside twenty-two minutes.</p><p> </p><p>He’s debating whether he has time to put in a to-go order when Dean comes out of Pam’s office, face flushed and blinking as the cold October air hits him.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey,” Cas says, turning on the bench to face his friend. “Are you done already?”</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s mouth opens and closes, and he screws his eyes closed in frustration. Cas’s stomach sinks.</p><p> </p><p>“Let’s go home,” he says, Chinese food forgotten. He pats Dean on the shoulder as he passes on the way to the truck, letting his hand linger longer than he probably should. Dean doesn’t say anything until they’re pulling out of the parking lot and on to the road.</p><p> </p><p>“I couldn’t do it,” he says, voice brittle. “Right from the get go. I couldn’t even say ‘hello.’ She gave me a notepad, but it would take a fucking novel to explain my issues.” He slams his open palm against his knee, and Cas’s eyes widen. “I can’t—”</p><p> </p><p>“We thought this could happen,” Cas reminds him gingerly. They’d discussed the possibility of Dean freezing up that morning over breakfast. Dean wrote a note explaining his speaking problem to give to Pam.</p><p> </p><p>“I know.” Dean blows out a harsh breath. “But I hoped— I don’t know, I guess I wanted a fucking miracle. I wanted something to come easily for once.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Cas says, feeling useless. “You don’t have to go back.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s hand rubs restlessly over his knee. “She asked me to come back. Next week, same day. She told me I should keep a journal of things I’d like to share with her and come back with it next time. We can try and read through it together, or something. I told her—” He huffs. “I <em>wrote to her</em> that I can talk to you, and she asked if I wanted you to come in next time.”</p><p> </p><p>“Do you want that?’</p><p> </p><p>Dean glances over at him. “I don’t know. Maybe. I want something that works, and talking to you works.”</p><p> </p><p>“Which I’m glad of,” Cas says, “but I’m not a therapist. Far from it.”</p><p> </p><p>“You wouldn’t be doing the therapy.” Dean rolls his eyes. “Just sitting there, so I could imagine I was talking to you instead of her.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas turns his blinker on as they turn on to the highway. “I’ll do whatever you want.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean falls silent, watching the trees fly by out the window. Cas can practically feel his anxiety, tension ratcheting in his shoulders as he decides what to do and say. Whether to try again or give up, whether trust Cas or Pam or Leahy or Bobby or all of them. Cas turns on the music, keeping the volume low. The twangy banjo of “Take Me Home, Country Roads”fills the cab, and he huffs a laugh. The corner of Dean’s mouth quirks up in a slight smile.</p><p> </p><p>“My cousin Gwen taught me how to play this on the guitar,” he says. “She really wanted me to get good at it so I could play covers of crappy ‘80s pop songs, but country music was all I ever mastered.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas keeps his face carefully blank as he says, “I didn’t know you could play guitar.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not that good.” Dean doesn’t say anything else for a moment, and Cas is worried this small sliver of background is all he’s going to get today. Then Dean laughs a little. “She’d accuse me of butchering my finger placements on purpose so I could go play outside. I never told her, but she was right. I did mess up on purpose. Twelve-year-old Dean did not appreciate how popular guitar players can be with the ladies.”</p><p> </p><p>Ignoring the pit that forms in his stomach at the last part of that sentence, Cas says, “Sounds like you were close.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” Dean’s voice is softer now, lost in memory. “We grew up together. She was just a year older than me, and her brothers were dicks, so we stuck up for each other. Her older brother, Christian, he thought was he was suave as Don fuckin’ Juan. One day in high school he was hitting on this senior chick, Amanda Heckerling. This girl was gorgeous.” Dean smiles, remembering, and a dimple pops in his cheek. “Tall, blonde, great smile. Way out of Christian’s league, but he had no idea. So he rolls up to her locker one day, hair slicked back and biker jacket on like he’s the second coming of Johnny Depp, and he asks her if he can carry her books for her after school, because for some reason that was the courtship ritual at this particular high school. Amanda’s gearing up to turn him down, but Gwen and I are standing behind him and waving our hands in the air like idiots, begging this poor girl to say yes. She’s confused as fuck, but she does.”</p><p> </p><p>“Astonishing,” Cas says, and Dean shrugs.</p><p> </p><p>“She was sort of friends with Gwen. She knew we had a reason, and it wasn’t that we were rooting for the star-crossed lovers. “ Dean grins. “So, after school, Christian swaggers back up to Amanda’s locker. She opens it, and it’s stuffed with every textbook Gwen and I could find — stuffed to the brim. We’d collected them from everyone — friends, random students, even a teacher or two. Christian’s face just drops, and Amanda Heckerling is smiling at him like she hasn’t noticed a damn thing. ‘Hope it’s not too much for you,’ she says, and that idiot wouldn’t take an out. She piles his arms full of books. They’re up to his chin. And then she says, ‘Wait, there’s more.’”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh no.” Cas smiles.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh yeah.” Dean smiles back, shaking his head. “We’d talked the girl with the locker next to Amanda into letting us ‘borrow’ it for the day. Amanda opens that door, and it’s so full crap is falling out. She was perfect. Gwen and I are losing our minds down the hallway, and this girl is just casually picking up textbooks and notepads and stacking them in Christian’s arms until he collapses. Afterward, we ran like hell to the bus, but he still caught us. Tried to kick my ass — unsuccessfully, I might add. Worth it.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas can’t help but think smug and self-satisfied is a good look on Dean. “Amanda sounds like a good sport.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. Turns out she actually had a thing for me, so that helped.” Dean winks, and Cas feels his cheeks redden. He focuses harder on the road. “We switched schools like two months later, so I only got to make out with her once.”</p><p> </p><p>“Did you move around a lot?”</p><p> </p><p>“All the time.” Dean’s happiness fades at this, and he goes back to staring out the window, melancholy. “Dad was paranoid about the government tracking us or some bullshit, so I’ve attended every school within ten counties of here at some point.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas doesn’t mention the yearbooks. “Your cousins moved, too?”</p><p> </p><p>“They’re part of the cult,” Dean says flatly. “It’s a family affair. “</p><p> </p><p>“Oh.” Maybe that answers the question of who he needs to protect.</p><p> </p><p>“Gwen was gonna come with me.” Dean’s eyes are fixed straight ahead, and Cas tries to stop sneaking so many glances at him. “A lot of people wanted out, not just us, but… I never would’ve been able to make any plans without her. She always knows what she wants. She always pushes me to be better. We had a timeline, wanted out by this summer. Then her pregnancy got tough, and everything changed.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas turns down the radio as Dean’s voice gets softer. He wonders if Gwen was the pregnant woman Jo saw with Dean at the Roadhouse. “I don’t blame her,” Dean’s saying. “All our plans got pushed back, and then everything went to shit for me, so.” He sounds lost, and Cas’s heart aches for him. “The baby’s due in early December. I don’t know if I’ll ever get to meet them.”</p><p> </p><p>“You will,” he assures Dean, but they both know it’s an empty platitude.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m scared for her,” Dean admits, and his hand shakes on his knee. “For all of them that were planning to go with me. Does he know about them, or just me? I don’t know. I lie awake every night and I count them all out in my head, the people I should have been responsible for, and it’s overwhelming, Cas. I don’t know what’s happened to any of them.”</p><p> </p><p>“You can’t save everyone.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean laughs bitterly. “Yeah, I know. But I should be able to save my family.” He turns to look at Cas. “He has my<em> mother</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas thinks of the way Dean’s spoken of his mother in the past, like a ghost haunting his memories, and reevaluates everything he knows about Dean once again. “She’s alive?”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know.” The words crack as Dean says them, broken and hopeless. “Who’s gonna protect her from him now? That was my <em>job</em>, and I failed. He could’ve killed her by now. With me gone, who would be able to stop him?”</p><p> </p><p>Cas can’t think of a single thing to say to that. They’re pulling into the driveway, and his mind is spinning with worry and fear for Dean, falling apart at the seams when he should be healing. <em>Why does God let bad things happen? </em>he hears Pam ask, and he thinks, <em>Because he doesn’t give a damn about us</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“Dean,” he starts, then stops. They both sit frozen in the truck, Dean swiping at his tears. “I’m so sorry.” What else is there to say? Life is bitterly unfair.</p><p> </p><p>“I gotta talk to Leahy,” Dean says suddenly, forcing the words out in a rush. “I don’t know how, but— I have to do <em>something</em>. I can’t just go to therapy and hang out with you when there’s even a chance she can help stop him. But Cas, I’m fucking terrified.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know.”</p><p> </p><p>“He could hurt them just as easily if we make a wrong move here.” Cas nods, listening. “I don’t know if I can trust her, but I trust you.” Dean shifts sideways in his seat to face Cas. “What do you think?”</p><p> </p><p>Cas doesn’t think he deserves this kind of trust. Everything he’s tried to help Dean seems to backfire. But it’s also clear they’re not going to get anywhere on their own, and Leahy is the only person they know in a position of power in this investigation. Can they trust her? He stares into Dean’s unblinking green eyes, and prays to a God he doesn’t believe in that he’s not wrong this time around.</p><p> </p><p>“You tell me when, and I’ll set up a meeting with her.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Dean gets lost in work, so Cas keeps bringing him to the park office and he stops asking questions when Bobby slips Dean wads of cash right under his nose. He watches Dean and Bobby scarf down the sandwiches he made in the office kitchen, grimacing as they chew with their mouths open, arguing (again) over what brand of part they need to order to fix the generator. Dean’s sandwich is dripping mustard onto his notepad, but he doesn’t seem to notice, too busy scribbling down why he thinks the more expensive part will work better in the long run.</p><p> </p><p>“That generator breaks once every couple of years, and this is always the brand I’ve used to fix it,” Bobby protests. “It’s $300 cheaper!”</p><p> </p><p>Cas has no idea what part of the generator is broken. He’s never been mechanically inclined.</p><p> </p><p><em>“That’s my point!!!” </em>Dean writes with a flourish. <em>“It breaks every couple of years because you’re a cheapskate!”</em></p><p> </p><p>“Now, hang on,” Bobby huffs, but Dean is already writing down some kind of cost-benefit analysis table. Cas gathers the remnants of his lunch, balling up his trash and tossing it into the trash can. “I’m gonna go check the budget and see if we have funds for any of this,” he announces, but they’re ignoring him. Cas shakes his head and walks to his desk.</p><p> </p><p>It’s been a week since they discussed telling Leahy everything, and Dean still hasn’t brought it up again, so Cas is holding his tongue. She texted him this morning to say she’s got a new lead, and he hasn’t told Dean yet. He wants to make sure it’s not another dead end before he drags Dean back into that vulnerable headspace. He’s watched his phone all afternoon, but Leahy hasn’t texted again.</p><p> </p><p>Cas sighs and pulls up the park’s budget spreadsheet for the year. It’s extensive, but he made it so he knows where everything is. He moves to the line for equipment repairs and cringes. As he expected, they went over budget fixing the cracked cylinder on the truck’s engine. He’s got to move money around if they expect to fix the generator this year, and Cas doesn’t know where that money will come from. It seems like they get less and less federal funding every year. His hopes of hiring another Ranger seem pretty far-fetched the longer he looks at the spreadsheet. The numbers blur and meld together, taunting him — <em>over budget, over budget</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“Cas?” He glances up, blinking to get moisture into his eyes. Garth is standing at the edge of his desk, cap in hand.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes?”</p><p> </p><p>“I just got a call from the Green Trail. A hiker twisted their ankle, and I was going to go pick them up in the UTV but it looks like the battery’s died. Is Dean around? I thought he could help me give it a jump.”</p><p> </p><p>“The battery died,” Cas repeats, more dollar signs floating in the air around him. He’s upset enough at the thought of an additional unplanned expense he forgets to be offended that Garth doesn’t think he knows how to jumpstart a battery. “Yeah, Dean’s in the kitchen with Bobby.”</p><p> </p><p>“Gracias señor,” Garth says amiably, walking back toward the kitchen with a pep in his step. Soon enough he and Dean are fiddling with the battery out under the carport, and Bobby comes to lean against Cas’s desk, eyes on the budget.</p><p> </p><p>“If it’s this bad again next year we won’t be able to hire anyone else.” Cas is scanning expense reports, searching for the line item where they’ve over-budgeted.</p><p> </p><p>“I gotta retire eventually. A new guy will be cheaper.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas scoffs. “In salary, yes. In training expenses, no.”</p><p> </p><p>Bobby pulls out the chair across from Cas’s desk and sits down, arms crossed over his belly. “Speaking of new hires…”</p><p> </p><p>Cas raises his eyebrows, waiting for Bobby to continue. The old man sighs.</p><p> </p><p>“That kid,” he says, jerking his thumb toward the door, “has got a mind for machines <em>and</em> he also seems to know a hell of a lot about survival skills. He’d make a good Ranger someday.”</p><p> </p><p>He’d thought the same, briefly, when watching Dean gently correct a child on how to set up a tent during a demonstration the other day. “I don’t know his education level,” Cas confesses. “I’ve got the feeling he didn’t go to college.”</p><p> </p><p>“We could make some recommendations,” Bobby says. “A lot of state schools in the area have less expensive programs. Would he be interested, you think?”</p><p> </p><p>It’s sweet that Bobby is trying to plan ahead for Dean, and Cas doesn’t have the heart to tell him Dean’s on the run and might be for a while. So he says, “I’ll talk to him about it. We’ll have to help him find a better-paying job, though. It’s not like he’d let you and I help pay for college courses.”</p><p> </p><p>Bobby grunts in agreement. “Just an idea.” He raps on Cas’s desk with his knuckles. “For the future.” Then he stands and stretches until his back pops and walks outside to help Garth and Dean.</p><p> </p><p>When Dean returns a few minutes later he’s alone.</p><p> </p><p>“Where’s Bobby?” Cas asks, not looking up from his computer.</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s voice is hoarse from disuse when he says, “He went with Garth to pick up that hiker.” Dean sits in the seat Bobby vacated, leaning back and balancing it on two legs. “What are you doing?”</p><p> </p><p>“Seeing if we have the money to fix the damn generator,” Cas mutters, still scrolling.</p><p> </p><p>“You probably don’t want to hear this right now, but if you buy Bobby’s cheap ass part you’re just gonna be spending more money down the line.”</p><p> </p><p>“Mmmm.” Cas takes his eyes off the spreadsheet. “Bobby’s cheap because so is our government. Parks don’t exactly get top billing when it comes to funding.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean shrugs, letting his chair fall back to all four legs. “I get it. But I had to replace our generator a few years back, and I promise you, putting a band-aid on this is going come bite you in the ass down the road.”</p><p> </p><p>“How did you learn to do all this?”</p><p> </p><p>“The handyman stuff?” Cas nods. “My dad wouldn’t let outsiders into camp unless they were weapons dealers. We had to fix everything ourselves. I watched other people fixing cars, wiring houses, building barns… everyone jumps in to help eventually. I’ve always been good with that type of stuff. Did shop in every high school I went to, too.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas thinks of Bobby’s suggestion. “This is a random question, but did you ever take any college classes?”</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s face falls slightly. “Nah. I got pulled out of high school my junior year because it ‘gave me too many ideas about the outside world.’” Cas can hear the air quotes. “I got my GED later, but college was out of the question. And I was one of the lucky ones. My dad stopped letting any of the kids go to school not long after that. They’re all home-schooled now.”</p><p> </p><p>Stomach sinking at the image of a bunch of children trapped in a cult classroom, Cas says, “You didn’t get out of your camp much, then?”</p><p> </p><p>“I was let out more when I got older.” Cas is sure his anger at the words “let out” shows on his face. The corners of Dean’s mouth draw down in a frown. “We had to get supplies, and sometimes Pa would let me go on the runs. Then he found a better use for me.”</p><p> </p><p>That sounds ominous. Cas is afraid to ask, but Dean keeps talking, tongue loose now that Bobby and Garth are gone. “The older I got, the stricter his rules became. Some of the people who’d joined for the survivalist bullshit started to feel caged in. They were leaving, and my dad hated that. He’d gotten his own little town up and running in the mountains, but it needed a certain number of people to stay afloat. He decided we needed to recruit.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas can see where this is going. “He used you for cult recruitment?” he asks, incredulous.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. I’m a good-looking guy, or so I’ve heard,” Dean says with studied nonchalance. Cas’s cheeks heat. “He wanted me to go to bars and hook up with people, draw them in.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas ignores the ambiguity of “people” in favor of fixating on the horror of the rest of that sentence. “Did you?” he asks, hoping the answer is no.</p><p> </p><p>Dean shakes his head vehemently. “Hell no. I had some idea by then what a piece of shit he was, but I had to keep appearances up. I didn’t really know I could leave yet. So I would hang out at the Roadhouse, and sometimes I would sleep with somebody, but I didn’t actively recruit anyone.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s… That’s good.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean looks down at his hands, rubbing absently at his left ring finger. “There was one woman… Lisa. She hung out there a lot. Waiting on her baby daddy to show up again so she could demand child support.” Dean smiles, and Cas wonders if this is the almost-marriage story. “In the beginning, I thought we were just having fun together, but—” There’s a far away, almost yearning look in his eyes Cas recognizes, and he tries once again to fight back pointless jealousy. “I don’t know. She was easy to talk to. I told her more than I meant to. Not as much as I told you, but… enough.”</p><p> </p><p>It should not be a victory to know more of Dean’s trauma than some random woman, but it feels like one anyway. Which in turn makes Cas feel like a shit friend.</p><p> </p><p>“I wasn’t supposed to hang out in town, but I snuck away a few times to be with her. Met her kid and everything.” He smiles, fond and sad. “Ben. He’s a cool little guy.” The smile falls. “We’d been hooking up for a few months when she told me she got a job in Indiana. She’d accepted Ben’s dad was never coming back, and they were gonna move. She asked me to come with her, said we could get married, run away together. Make a family.”</p><p> </p><p>“She asked you?” Cas is impressed despite himself.</p><p> </p><p>Dean rubs at his ring finger again. “I’m telling you, man. She was some girl. I told her yes, but…” His voice trails off. “My father caught me the next time I tried to go see her. He made a lot of vague threats, and I gave it up. I just disappeared from her life. Let her think I was just like Ben’s dad. “</p><p> </p><p>“Dean, that’s not your fault.”</p><p> </p><p>He stops rubbing his fingers and interlocks them instead, stretching his hands out and cracking his knuckles. “Yeah, well. Tell that to Lisa Braeden. She probably hates me.”</p><p> </p><p>With a pit of dread in his stomach, Cas says, “We could try to look her up if you wanted.”</p><p> </p><p>“Already did.” Dean forces a small smile that comes out more like a grimace. “She’s on Facebook. She got married a few years ago to some doctor named Matt, so… Missed my chance.”</p><p> </p><p>Again, Cas feels like shit for being happy Lisa moved on. <em>You should want what’s best for Dean</em>, he reminds himself sternly. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not,” Dean says. “I mean, I’m sorry I hurt her, but I’m glad she’s happy. I was trying to force a square peg into a round hole with Lisa anyway. I wouldn’t have been a good husband.” He shoots Cas a devilish grin. “And if I’d run away with her, I never would’ve met you.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas’s heart rate picks up. He’s definitely blushing. “Well, as much as I wish we’d met under different circumstances, I’m very glad we did meet.”</p><p> </p><p>They grin at each other like dumbasses for a moment, and the door to the office swings open. They both start as Bobby comes in, closing the door with a <em>bang</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“What are you two smiling about?” he asks. “Cas, I’ve got a report to fill out about this hiker. I need you to pick up my next patrol. And you—” He points the antenna of his radio at Dean. “—I need you to find a cheaper version of that replacement part. If you want something nicer, we gotta keep it closer to the budget. Cas, give the man a more realistic price limit.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean mock salutes Bobby, and Cas shakes his fondly. “Ay, ay captain,” he says.</p><p> </p><p>“Idjits, all of you,” Bobby grumbles.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Dean gets very into TV shows, Cas has noticed with a great deal of amusement. And now he understands why.</p><p> </p><p>“I can see you trying not to laugh over there.” Dean’s lying down and taking up almost the whole couch, and Cas is sitting crammed into the corner. Dean nudges Cas’s leg with his foot. “Shut up. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve seen a new show?”</p><p> </p><p>On the screen, Dr. Sexy (MD), is seducing one of his patients. Yes, she’s still in her hospital bed and hooked up to every monitor imaginable, but that isn’t stopping Dr. Sexy from making out with her. In the doorway Dr. Piccolo is watching, tears in her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“This is <em>bad</em> television,” Cas says. “The dialogue is so stilted.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, Dr. Sexy,” says the patient, whose name Cas can’t recall. “This is wrong, but it feels so right!”</p><p> </p><p>Cas rolls his head toward Dean and raises his eyebrows as if to say <em>see?</em> Dean flips him off.</p><p> </p><p>“Shhh.” Dean’s eyes are riveted to the screen. “It’s getting good!”</p><p> </p><p>Cas almost regrets introducing Dean to daytime television. Almost. On the plus side, it makes his friend happy, and Cas lives to see Dean smile. On the downside, Dean has terrible taste in shows. Every drama he picks is soapier and stupider than the last, and <em>Dr. Sexy, MD</em> might be the worst of all.</p><p> </p><p>Dr. Sexy (who is a bad doctor, Cas thinks) is ignoring his beeper in favor of making out (unethically) with his hot patient. Two floors down, his other patient (who is not hot but in need of actual medical assistance) is coding. Dr. Piccolo is wiping her tears away and going to save the day.</p><p> </p><p>“Good for her,” Cas mutters. “Hopefully they fire his ass finally.”</p><p> </p><p>“Shhh!”</p><p> </p><p>Cas rolls his eyes. He glances down at the IMDb page he’d pulled up earlier. They’re only on season two. There are <em>thirteen</em> more to go. He can’t do this for the rest of his life.</p><p> </p><p>“How the hell did this show get renewed fifteen times?”</p><p> </p><p>“Shut up!” Dean sits up, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and chin in hand. “They’re playing sad girl music. That means Dr. Piccolo is about to have a revelation.”</p><p> </p><p>“It better be that she needs to move on.” Cas knows better. He’s also read the show’s Wikipedia page. Dr. Piccolo and Dr. Sexy get married and divorced three times over the course of the show. He rubs at his temples, wondering if he could spoil the ending for Dean and then never have to watch this garbage again. But no, he can’t be that cruel.</p><p> </p><p>Indeed, after Dr. Piccolo saves the patient (and Dr. Sexy’s ass by covering for him with their boss, the formidable Dr. Barley), she has a revelation as she walks to her sports car in the parking garage.</p><p> </p><p>“I feel so powerful after saving a life,” Dr. Piccolo’s actress says in unconvincing voiceover as the doctor smirks to herself on screen. “Like I can do anything, <em>be </em>anything. If I can save a man from certain death with a triple bypass heart transplant—” (“Oh, now they’re just throwing out medical jargon and seeing what sticks!” “SHHHH! It’s her moment!”) “—then I can win back Dr. Sexy’s heart. All it will take is a little time, and a whole lot of love. Just like surgery.”</p><p> </p><p>“I hate this,” Cas declares as the credits roll.</p><p> </p><p>“I hate you,” Dean says, and then he brightens. “Hey look, another episode is on right after this! Oh, it’s one I’ve seen…”</p><p> </p><p>“Thank God.”</p><p> </p><p>“OH, this is the one where Dr. Sexy buys new cowboy boots! We’re watching it.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas groans and buries his head in his hands. Dean lies down and throws his feet in Cas’s lap again, and beneath his hands Cas grins.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>In the end, Cas doesn’t contact Leahy. She comes to them.</p><p> </p><p>It’s a Sunday, the day after their regrettable <em>Dr. Sexy</em> marathon, and Cas is hungover. He added alcohol to the mix around the fifth episode. It was a mistake. He crawls out of bed at half past eleven, eyes bloodshot and skin sallow, to find Dean reading <em>Cat’s Cradle</em> in the living room, coffee mug in hand. Dean chose not to drink so he could “focus on the plot.” As if that stupid show has a plot.</p><p> </p><p>“You look like shit,” Dean says cheerfully.</p><p> </p><p>“Ugh,” Cas responds, hoping there’s more where that coffee came from.</p><p> </p><p>He’s just found the empty pot when the doorbell rings. Cas groans, rubbing at his eyes. “Hang on!” he yells. When he walks back into the living room, Dean’s stiffened, book closed and back ramrod straight.</p><p> </p><p>“UPS, probably,” Cas says, trying for reassuring. He opens the door to find Leahy on his porch, arms crossed. “Uh…”</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry to show up out of the blue,” she says, walking in as he steps aside without a word. “I went by the park but Bobby told me you were off this weekend.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s fine.” Cas tugs self-consciously at his ratty sleep shirt. “Have a seat.” He gestures to the loveseat and moves to sit next to Dean on the couch. Dean’s still tense, and Cas sets a hand on his knee before remembering himself and pulling away.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m glad you’re both here,” Leahy says, pulling papers out of her messenger bag. “I’ve got a new lead, and I think it’s time we talk about it, Dean. If you’re willing.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean swallows and looks at Cas, who tries to convey his support with a soft smile. Dean nods at Leahy. She raises her eyebrows in surprise.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, well.” She signs something, a blur of hands Cas can’t make out, but Dean seems to recognize. He nods again. “I asked him if he wanted you here. He does.”</p><p> </p><p>Leahy slides a photo across the coffee table toward them. It’s grainy, and Cas recognizes it as a still from more security camera footage, though in slightly better shape than the Roadhouse’s. There’s Dean, hands in his jacket pockets standing next to a brown van. He’s with a young woman with short, dark hair and a taller man.</p><p> </p><p>“I got this from one of the store owners who told Mills they recognized you.” Leahy points a finger at the van. “I pulled the license plate number. Registered to one Christian Campbell. He has a drunk and disorderly from 2005 but nothing else. But I’m willing to bet he’s one of our guys, because of—” She places another security still on top of the last. “—this footage taken from a gas station the day Cas found you in the park. That’s the same van, on a highway by park land, at just the right time.” Leahy locks eyes with Dean, and signs as she says, “Right?”</p><p> </p><p>Dean touches the photo, moving it aside to look at the first still again. He furrows his brow, then coughs. “Right,” he says, looking back up and directly at Leahy so she can read his lips. She can’t hear the tremor in his voice, but she blinks in shock.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Leahy says, and Cas puts his hand on Dean’s knee again. This time he doesn’t pull away. “Good. That’s— Well, not good. But it’s something. Dean, I can’t do much else if I don’t have your cooperation. I can’t find an address for this guy that isn’t an abandoned post office box, and without your testimony none of my digging means anything. So, this is me laying all my cards on the table and asking for the last time — do you want to tell me what happened to you?”</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s trembling. Cas squeezes his knee. “Yes,” he manages. “I— I do.”</p><p> </p><p>Leahy leans forward. “I’m listening,” she says with a slight smile, pointing at her mouth.</p><p> </p><p>“Christian Campbell is my cousin,” Dean says, and maybe the fact that Leahy can’t hear him helps ease the shakiness in his voice. “My name is Dean Campbell, not Dean Smith. The woman—” He taps the first photo. “—is my other cousin, Gwen. She had nothing to do with this.”</p><p> </p><p>“But Christian did?” Cas notices she’s signing slowly as she talks, perhaps trying to teach Dean even as he’s struggling to speak.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. He was one of the guys who attacked me.”</p><p> </p><p>Leahy nods encouragingly.</p><p> </p><p>“Before I tell you all this,” Dean says, “I need you to promise me something.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll do my best.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean licks his lips. Cas can sense his hesitation. “These aren’t people you can just show up and serve a warrant to, Eileen.” He signs her name, and Leahy’s face softens.</p><p> </p><p>“We can take you to a more secure location if necessary.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s not what I’m worried about.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then what are you worried about?”</p><p> </p><p>Dean grabs Cas’s hand for comfort, and Cas’s heart races. “They’ve got people I care about.”</p><p> </p><p>Leahy’s eyes widen. “A kidnapping situation?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, I—” Cas can see Dean’s struggling to get the words out, and he runs his thumb over the back of Dean’s palm. Thankfully Leahy’s too fixed on reading Dean’s lips to notice this. “I guess, in a way. Eileen, it’s a cult. I grew up in a cult.”</p><p> </p><p>Her eyebrows knit together as she processes this. “Then I’m guessing there’s a leader with a lot of control over the group?”</p><p> </p><p>“My father.”</p><p> </p><p>Leahy purses her lips together. “I see. He ordered some of his followers to hang you?” she asks, always blunt. Dean winces. Cas realizes he’s never asked Dean who actually did the hanging.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” Dean says. “He was there. He…supervised.” Cas sees red, but he carefully keeps his anger in check, holding Dean’s hand tighter. “Look, my mother might still be alive. And my cousin, Gwen, and some others who wanted to escape. If we don’t handle this carefully, he could kill them. I know he wouldn’t hesitate to do it if he felt cornered.”</p><p> </p><p>Leahy looks down at the photos, staring at the dark-haired woman next to Dean. Gwen. The cousin who played pranks with him. The cousin who’s <em>pregnant.</em> Cas hopes Leahy takes Dean concerns as deadly serious, because they are. This is life and death for the people left behind.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not a specialist,” she admits when she looks back at them. “Dean, I don’t have the experience for this kind of case. The brass is going to remove me as lead investigator as soon as they hear the word ‘cult.’ If had to guess, they’ll give it to Calvin Reidy up at Quantico.” Dean tenses, and Eileen reassures him, “He’s good at his job. He’s worked some high-profile cases before.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean signs something haltingly, and Eileen sighs. “I’m glad you trust me now. But this is over my head.”</p><p> </p><p>“I won’t cooperate unless you’re on the case,” Dean insists, and Cas is proud of the way his voice holds steady. “You can tell your bosses that.”</p><p> </p><p>“No matter who handles this case, our goal will be to help everyone innocent get out.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean shakes his head. “No. You don’t know my father. He’d rather no one get out than lose one more person to the outside world. This could turn into another Waco, and I’m not letting that happen to my family. There are people I love trapped there.” His words grow louder and fiercer as he goes. “The FBI doesn’t have a great track record for handling this shit, so if I have to trust one of you to rescue my people, it’s gotta be you. You’re the only one I know. You’re the only one I’m talking to. If they take you off the case, you’ll never get another word out of me.”</p><p> </p><p>He glares at Eileen, chest heaving. Cas wishes he could ease the tension, but he’s just as nervous as Dean.</p><p> </p><p>Eileen says, “I’m going to request Reidy’s assistance.” She holds up a hand to quell Dean’s protest. “Don’t worry, message received. If we want your cooperation, then I’m the go-to. I’ll tell my bosses. But they’ll still want Calvin in on this. If I ask before they can issue an order, we might get to do this your way.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fine,” Dean bites out. “But I mean it — no SWAT teams, no newspaper interviews, or I—”</p><p> </p><p>“Or you won’t talk.”</p><p> </p><p>“No,” Dean says flatly, “or I run. You won’t be able to find me, and then you’ll have nothing.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas stares at his profile, dismayed. Leahy keeps a poker face, though he hears the doubt in her voice when she says, “Alright. I’ll go talk to the brass.” She stands and collects the photos. “You’ll hear from me soon.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas walks Eileen to the door, numb as he says a quiet goodbye and locks it behind her. When he turns to face Dean, his friend is standing right behind him.</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t know what else to say,” he confesses. “I needed her to know I’m serious about this.”</p><p> </p><p>“I thought you weren’t running anymore,” Cas says, and he tries not to sound accusatory but it comes out that way anyway. <em>Don’t take this personally</em> he tells himself as Dean’s face falls, and he reaches out to touch the other man’s shoulder. “Sorry, I just… I’m being selfish. I still worry I’ll wake up one day and you’ll be gone.”</p><p> </p><p>The corner of Dean’s lip quirks up, and he pulls Cas in by the elbow for a hug. Shocked, Cas almost forgets to put his arms around Dean in return. He feels his body heat rising just from a few seconds of holding each other, pressed together from chest to toe. Dean pulls back first, and Cas regrets the loss as soon as it happens.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not gonna leave without telling you,” he promises, and Cas believes him. Dean knocks him on the shoulder with the back of his hand. “Besides, I want to stay here. Who else will endure ten straight hours of <em>Dr. Sexy, MD</em> with me?”</p><p> </p><p>Cas’s stomach is roiling, but he manages a wry smile. “Don’t think I’ll ever do that again,” he says, but he already knows he’d do just about anything for Dean.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Dean’s fiddling with his new journal, opening and closing the cover and flipping through the pages with his thumb as fast as shuffling a stack of cards.</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t have to talk to her,” Cas reminds me him, turning the heater in the truck up. It’s getting colder as they inch into November.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t think I’m going to be able to talk.” Dean looks at the door to Pam’s practice. “I could barely talk to Eileen and she can’t even hear me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Your sign language is improving,” Cas says lightly. “Pretty soon you might not need to talk to her.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean shrugs, shoulders tense. “I’ve been watching YouTube videos when you and Bobby are working. My mom taught me more than I thought, but I’m still a long way from fluency. Eileen can understand me better by lip-reading than watching me stumbling through ASL.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas makes a mental note to start watching ASL videos, too, if only so Dean has someone to practice with. “Regardless, if you don’t want to see Pam you know you don’t have to.”</p><p> </p><p>“I did all this work,” Dean says, holding up the journal. Cas has seen him at the kitchen table scribbling in the mornings, tapping a pen against his teeth and deciding what to tell this stranger about his life. “And I can’t keep dumping all my shit on you. Like you said, you’re not a therapist.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t mind hearing about your life, Dean,” Cas says earnestly. “You can tell me anything. I just don’t have the skills to suggest coping methods and Pam does.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean rubs his fingers over the journal’s leather-bound cover. “Yeah, I know.”</p><p> </p><p>“I could come in if you still wanted to try the ‘talking to her through me’ thing.” Cas does air quotes, and Dean shoots him a grudging smile.</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks, but today I think I should try to do this on my own.” He eyes the clock. One minute till appointment time. “I’ll just— do my best, I guess.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s all anyone can do.”</p><p> </p><p>“Look at you, being all philosophical,” Dean teases, and Cas rolls his eyes. “Okay, I gotta go. Um—” He hesitates, unsure, but Cas knows what he wants to ask.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll just wait here then,” he says with a reassuring smile, and Dean nods, grateful. Cas watches him until he’s inside, then leans back against the headrest and closes his eyes to take a nap.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Agent Frank Reidy eyes shift around the room like he’s expecting someone to jump out at him from behind one of the desk. He walks into the park office behind Eileen and shakes Cas’s hand with a grip just this side of too-sweaty and says, “We need to go somewhere with more privacy.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas glances at Bobby and Garth, both sitting at their desks and pretending not to listen. He knows for fact they both are supposed to be out on patrol right now. “The kitchen has a table to set up at,” he says, gesturing toward the back room. Dean’s standing in the corner, arms folded and silent, tensing as Reidy nods at him from across the room. “We can go in there.”</p><p> </p><p>He’s grateful to see Jody coming through the front door behind the agents. At last, a friendly face. He doesn’t know what Eileen did, but he’s glad she convinced her bosses to let himself and Jody stay on Dean’s case as consultants. Dean needs all the friends he get, and Cas knows he still doesn’t trust the FBI — not even Eileen, though he’s trying to.</p><p> </p><p>Cas worries about Dean as they all take their seats around the crowded little table, Dean sitting wedged between Cas and Jody. He told Cas he managed to talk to Pam Barnes a little in their therapy sessions, and he knows she gave him some suggestions for how to work around the ever-present lump in his throat, but he still has his notepad in front of him turned to a clean page. The way Reidy is staring at him is probably not conducive to a comfortablespeaking environment, and Dean still hasn’t talked to anyone in this room but Cas and Eileen.</p><p> </p><p>“So,” Reidy says once they’ve settled in. “Tell me about this cult you escaped from.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s mouth opens, and nothing comes out. The room is eerily quiet, Reidy still staring in that unnervingly shifty way of his, eyes darting between Dean, Cas, and Jody like he’s not sure he wants to be in the same room as them. Jody looks at the table, and Cas watches Dean, covertly pressing his leg against Dean’s under the table.</p><p> </p><p><em>“Sorry,” </em>Dean signs to Leahy, and Cas recognizes the word because it’s one he’s seen Dean practicing. Leahy signs something back, her face gentle. Dean pulls out his notepad and starts to write. When Reidy sighs, Cas glares at him from across the table.</p><p> </p><p><em>“It’s about 50 people total, or it was. Led by my father. His real name is Samuel Campbell, but he goes by several aliases.” </em>Cas doesn’t think Dean has named his father before, even to Leahy. <em>“I doubt you’ll find anything recent on him in the system. He and my mother, Deanna, went off-grid in the 70s.” </em>Dean writes quickly and then tears the page off and slides it to the center of the table, working on a new paragraph while the others lean forward to read what he’s written.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“I don’t know much about his life before I was born. Ex-military, army special forces, fought in Korea and Vietnam. He’s in his 70s, but he’s still the de-facto head of the group. A lot of my cousins are involved, but he’s recruited others throughout the years. The compound where they live in the mountains is semi-military. Think barracks, tons of guns, homemade bombs.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>He slides the next page forward.</p><p> </p><p><em>“Samuel believes, or at least preaches, that the apocalypse is coming, and the only way to survive is to form a militia armed to the teeth. It’s a doomsday cult. The kids are raised as child soldiers, and his word is law. The women train alongside the men, but the elders have expected sexual favors from them in the past.” </em>Dean grimaces, and Cas thinks of his mother and the cousin he loves so much. <em>“They believe in raising an army, so we’re supposed to ‘mate’ within the group, but the younger generation is much smaller than my father’s. That practice fell out of favor, and Samuel’s not happy about it. He used me to try to actively recruit younger female members, but I never brought anyone back. Still, there are at least six teenagers and seven children under the age of 12 in the camp right now. My cousin is pregnant with the eighth.”</em></p><p> </p><p>Another page is ripped out.</p><p> </p><p><em>“Around half of us were planning to leave the cult this year. He found out somehow. I don’t know who told him, but he tried to kill me because he knew I was the ringleader. He’ll have tightened his grip since then. I don’t know who else he might have killed.” </em>Dean’s face screws up, and Cas wishes he could take his hand. <em>“He’s smart, and his loyal followers would die for him. They look at him like some kind of prophet. It’s religious to them. I don’t think it’s the same for him. He just wants to be obeyed. I doubt he believes the shit he preaches, but he’s devoted to himself above all else. He won’t be taken in. He’ll go down fighting and drag everyone else with him. He wanted me as his second, so if he could order my death, he could order anyone’s.”</em></p><p> </p><p>Dean starts another page as Reidy and Leahy read over the last, frowns marring their faces.</p><p> </p><p><em>“I want to protect everyone I can. If we make a move, he will fight back and his loyalists will fight with him. He’ll die before he surrenders to the government. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt. I need to know if the other defectors are still alive. If they are, we need an extraction plan. I can draw maps of the compound and lead you to it, but we can’t attack head-on or people will die. And if this makes the news, he’s going to run and I don’t know if I’d be able to find him. This information needs to stay in this room. </em><em>Please.</em><em>” </em>He highlights the last word, digging the pen into the page, and then looks up at the agents, eyebrows raisedin anticipation as they read.</p><p> </p><p>Reidy gathers the papers in his hands and flips through them, reading and rereading. The others are silent. Cas presses the edge of his palm against Dean’s leg, and Dean hooks their pinkies together, just briefly.</p><p> </p><p>He hates this Samuel Campbell with a burning passion, has hated him ever since Dean admitted his father was the man who strung him up in a tree and left him to die. But he hates him even more now, feeling Dean shake next to him, unable to speak again and forced to rely on people he doesn’t know for help saving the rest of his family. Cas is angry enough he has half a mind to march into the mountains with a gun and see if he can’t find this Samuel Campbell himself. Cas bumps his hand against Dean’s again to calm his own anger as much as Dean’s anxiety.</p><p> </p><p>Reidy stacks the notepad sheets neatly together and lays them on the table in front of him. “Alright,” he says. “This is a start. But I’m going to need a lot more before we talk strategy. Names, numbers of those anticipated to be armed and dangerous, locations of weapons, location of the camp itself. Maps of everything. I’ve got some questions you can answer to give me a more in-depth profile of your father, and then we need to talk secondary characters — who does he trust? Who does he hate? Who’s with him and who’s against him? I need to know exactly what you mean by militia training — there are a lot of bozos out there with guns who don’t know how to use them. I need to figure out exactly what Campbell’s military career entailed. Special forces do a lot of different shit. This is just the tip of the iceberg.” He gestures at Dean’s notes. “If you want us to make a plan, I need to know <em>everything</em> you can think of.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean swallows and nods.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve brought maps,” Jody announces to the table. She pulls them out of her purse and spreads them out in front of the group. Cas sees the standard park map, a map of the county and one for the wider tri-county area. “I figured we might need to search some woods nearby.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean takes the tri-county map and unfolds it, turning it so Leahy and Reidy are viewing it right side up. Cas watches as Dean takes a pen and starts drawing a careful line off a familiar county road.</p><p> </p><p>“By the Roadhouse?” he asks, and Dean nods. <em>“Back in the trees behind the bar</em>,” he writes on a scrap of notepad paper, then he resumes drawing on the map. This little unnamed road branches off like the one he drew for Bobby, one branch running along the creek at the base of the mountain, ending in a dead end, and the other crossing over what must be a bridge, climbing the mountain into the neighboring county. Dean’s little road follows the rise in elevation, snaking just below the peak before plunging into a valley where it ends. Dean draws small boxes around the end of his road — buildings, Cas realizes.</p><p> </p><p><em>“The first branch is to trick people into thinking the road’s a dead end,” </em>Dean writes, tapping on the road that runs along the creek. <em>“We keep a folding bridge on the far side of the creek, hidden in brush. We can let it down when we need to cross and take the actual road to the camp.” </em>He taps the road winding up the mountain and into the valley. <em>“The camp is here. Three barracks, two houses, an armory, an outhouse, a supply area, community kitchen and cafeteria. Firing range is out in the woods.“</em></p><p> </p><p>Cas stares at Dean’s map, eyes roving from the camp location to the park. It’s got to be at least twenty miles away from Lover’s Lane, and Dean ran that far sick and barefoot before his father caught up to him. He stares at Dean, horrified at the thought, but luckily everyone else is so absorbed with the map they don’t notice his stricken face. The others continue to talk around him, commenting on the map and asking Dean questions he scribbles down answers to, but Cas is trying to focus on his own breathing. He needs to keep his anger in check. Dean needs him here, even if he’s sitting silently fuming.</p><p> </p><p>“We’re going to need a delayed cause warrant,” he hears Reidy says to Jody, and Jody says, “I’ve never asked for one before,” in a tone that says she doesn’t like his idea.</p><p> </p><p>“If we want to conduct surveillance on private property, it’s the only way,” he says. “I need to find out who actually owns this land.” He taps the map. “Then we’ll ask for the warrant and get a team in place to survey our suspects.”</p><p> </p><p><em>“A team?” </em>Dean writes, and Reidy waves him off.</p><p> </p><p>“Something small, a few well-trained agents. The FBI isn’t going to let me just waltz into the woods alone. Don’t worry, I’m not interested in a firefight anymore than you are.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean taps the pencil against the desk and Cas longs to comfort him, but he doesn’t know what to say. He talked Dean into this, and now the FBI agents are taking over the entire conversation.</p><p> </p><p>“We need to get this profile of Samuel Campbell built ASAP,” Reidy continues, oblivious to Dean’s obvious discomfort. He turns to Leahy. “I want you to run a background check on this guy’s every alias, pick up his military files, find out if he got a ticket for drunk and disorderly in the 70s, anything we can get—”</p><p> </p><p>“It will be okay,” he whispers to Dean under his breath as Reidy pulls out a thin notepad and starts taking notes furiously. “They’re just trying to figure out what they’re dealing with.” But it feels like a lie, even to him.</p><p> </p><p>Cas thought maybe they could trust Leahy, but this is clearly Reidy’s investigation now. He can tell by the pinched look on Leahy’s face she’s not happen with Reidy’s take-charge approach, either. He has a sinking feeling in his stomach telling him he’s invited disaster in again.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>After the meeting, Reidy pulls Cas aside. Cas has to duck his head to hear the shorter man’s whispered question.</p><p> </p><p>“Can we trust him?” He jerks his head toward Bobby’s desk, where Dean is admiring the wooden paperweight Bobby carved to look like an old Colt revolver. “I’ve been led into traps before, and I’d prefer not to go down that road again.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas feels a flash fire of irritation and indignation spread through his body, but he merely says, “I trust Dean completely,” with the unspoken implication that he does not feel the same way about Reidy.</p><p> </p><p>The agent doesn’t catch this. “Alright,” he mutters. “Then get ready to wade into the mess, because trust me — cults? Always messy.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The warrant is granted a week later. Cas’s presence is not covered by it. He wants to protest — after all, Dean’s been a mess all week, unfocused at the office when Bobby gives him basic tasks and quiet at home, unable to even enjoy <em>Dr. Sexy</em> — and Cas knows he helps center Dean, makes him feel more calm. He should be there when Dean leads Reidy and his team into the woods.</p><p> </p><p>And it is a team — four agents they don’t know, plus Leahy and Reidy. Dean’s angry about this, and Cas is angry for him. Hiding seven people in the woods is much more difficult than hiding two or three, and Dean is still adamant they not approach the people of the compound. Reidy’s assurances that they won’t all ring false to Cas, and he knows they do to Dean, too.</p><p> </p><p>“Can’t you at least go?” he asks Jody the night before the surveillance mission. Dean’s in the living room, sleeping fitfully on the couch. Cas is terrified to move him, afraid if he wakes Dean to make him go to be he’ll end up staying up all night instead.</p><p> </p><p>“The warrant is for the FBI only,” Jody says apologetically. Cas sighs into the phone. “I know, but I already argued about this with Reidy. He said Leahy gave us too much leeway, let us stick our noses where they don’t belong.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s bullshit,” Cas snaps. “Dean needs someone there he knows is on his side.”</p><p> </p><p>Jody doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. “You can’t protect him from everything. He’s a grown man in the middle of an attempted murder case. He’ll have to walk through this without you holding his hand the whole way.”</p><p> </p><p>“You sound like Bobby.” His boss had said almost the exact same thing when Cas called him to complain about Reidy pushing him out of the investigation.</p><p> </p><p>“He’s not wrong,” Jody says. He hears her take a breath. “Cas, can I ask you a personal question?”</p><p> </p><p>Cas is sorely tempted to say “no” and be done with this conversation. “What is it?” He creeps down to the edge of the hallway while he waits for Jody to respond, sticking his head into the living room and checking on Dean. He’s still sleeping in the glow of the television light.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you— Do you like him?”</p><p> </p><p>Cas’s mouth dries. He plays dumb. “Reidy?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, Cas. <em>Dean</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course I like him.” He plays dumb again, but Cas knows what she’s asking. Remembers this exact question from his older brother, years ago and in a much less sympathetic tone. <em>Castiel, do you</em> like <em>him?</em></p><p> </p><p>Jody says, “You know what I mean. And I’m asking as a friend, not as someone who’s looked into Dean’s case.” Silence. Cas isn’t sure he can speak. He watches Dean, his legs twitching under the thin throw blanket, brow furrowed even in sleep. He wants to hang up and walk over there, give Dean another blanket, take all his burdens away from him.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Jody says, stopping his wild train of thought. “You don’t have to say anything, it was inappropriate of me to—”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” he interrupts. “I do. I do…” <em>Like him</em> sounds so trivial. Those words do not describe how Cas feels for Dean.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Jody says quietly. It’s not judgement in her tone, but still something unpleasant. Resignation, perhaps. “Well… You should maybe take this opportunity to step back, then. It could be considered a conflict of interest to have you more involved should this get to a trial.”</p><p> </p><p>“No one is going to find out,” Cas says, that same old fear rising in his gullet. He turns away from Dean, paces back down the dark hallway with his dark thoughts. “Jody, he’s living in my house. I’m not— I don’t want to put that kind of pressure on him. And I’m fairly certain he’s straight.” All the relationships he knows Dean has had — Jo, Lisa — have been with women. “We don’t… This can stay between us.”</p><p> </p><p>As ashamed as it makes him, Cas knows his knee-jerk fear reaction doesn’t stem only from concern for Dean’s comfort. The last time the people around him learned he loved men he was rejected whole-heatedly. Bobby might have hinted without outright saying it, but to have Jody call out his sexuality is something entirely different. It leaves him raw and open, a target for potentially the whole town. He can’t go through that again.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not going to say anything to anyone,” she says in a soothing tone Cas knows she uses with bystander witnesses who’ve seen something terrible. “But if I know, and I think Bobby knows — other people will figure it out, too. I’m not judging you, but you need to understand that your crush could jeopardize Dean’s case. A defense attorney would easily make you out to be an unreliable witness.”</p><p> </p><p>First he needed to hold back his feelings to protect himself from Dean, now he has to hold back his feelings to protect Dean from him. Cas’s stomach turns, and he grasps his elbow with the opposite hand to stop his arm from shaking while he tries to hold the phone still.</p><p> </p><p>“What are you suggesting I do?” he asks lowly. “Kick him out of my home?”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course not! Just— don’t fight Reidy on this. Let Eileen be his advocate from here on out. I know she came off a little brusque at first, but she’s just trying to do her job. She cares about Dean. And she at least has some semblance of authority in this case when, frankly, we don’t.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas leans against the wall next to his bedroom door. Gracie sticks her head out, gazing up at him wide-eyed. She weaves her way in and out of his spread feet, rubbing against his ankles and purring. It almost makes him want to cry.</p><p> </p><p>“Fine,” he manages to say. “But if Reidy fucks this up—”</p><p> </p><p>“I know,” Jody says, as if she does. “We’ll talk again after… tomorrow. Okay? Take care, Cas.”</p><p> </p><p>“Bye,” he says, and it sounds sarcastic but he can’t find it in himself to feel bad. Jody’s expecting him to let Dean walk back into hell with a team of people he doesn’t know and doesn’t trust, and the worst part is Cas knows she’s right. He does need to back off. He just doesn’t know how.</p><p> </p><p>Gracie meows plaintively, and Cas slides down to the floor, scooping her up in his arms and burying his face in her soft fur. Down the hall, Dean’s murmuring soft and frantic words in his sleep.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“You’re gonna wear a hole in the rug,” Bobby mutters. He’s been watching Cas pace for about ten minutes, which is nine minutes longer than Cas imagined it taking for his threadbare patience to unravel. “Jody said she’d call as soon as she hears from Leahy.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s been hours.” Cas steps over Gracie, who’s decided to sprawlbelly up in a sunspot right in the middle of the living room. “This shouldn’t be taking this long.”</p><p> </p><p>“How do you know how long a surveillance mission should take?” Bobby throws his hands in the air. “Fine, keep panicking. I’m gonna raid your fridge. Consider it payback for all the food Dean’s taken from me at the office.”</p><p> </p><p>“You <em>let</em> him eat your food,” Cas says under his breath as Bobby walks out of the room. He keeps pacing.</p><p> </p><p>Dean and the agents left to scout out the Campbell compound almost six hours ago. Dean was silent as Leahy and Reidy arrived to pick him up. He didn’t even speak to Cas all morning, choosing to sit on the back porch and stare at the mountains while Cas worried in the house. He’s still worrying, so much so his stomach churns and his legs feel wobbly, but he can’t sit down. Every time he tries, his every nerve alights, commanding he <em>go</em>, <em>do something</em>. But he can’t do anything. This is out of his hands now.</p><p> </p><p>Gracie meows at him from the floor as he passes her on another lap around the room. “Don’t you tell me to calm down,” Cas says. To a cat. Gracie meows again, angrier this time. He’s blocking her sun. Cas steps to the side and runs his hands through his hair, pulling at the roots. With a groan of defeat, he heads for the kitchen to make sure Bobby isn’t emptying his cabinets.</p><p> </p><p>He finds the older man cooking ground beef in a skillet over the stovetop, humming some disjointed melody.</p><p> </p><p>“What are you doing?”</p><p> </p><p>Bobby doesn’t look up as he tosses a healthy dose of pepper into the pan. “What does it look like I’m doing? Making hamburgers. It’s way past dinnertime, and you’ll both need to eat when Dean gets back.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas slumps down on a kitchen chair. “Thanks, Bobby.”</p><p> </p><p>Bobby grunts in return. “I’m hungry, too.” Cas smiles at his back.</p><p> </p><p>He’s still jittery and anxious, but he manages to stay seated while Bobby cooks the patties, watching the clock and forcing himself to only pick up his cellphone every three minutes instead of every thirty seconds. Bobby’s finished cooking and wrapped the meat up to go in the fridge when Jody calls just after 8:30.</p><p> </p><p>“Jody,” Bobby says as he answers, and Cas leans forward so far he almost falls out of his chair. “They’re back?” A long pause. Bobby frowns, and Cas’s heart thuds in his chest. “She’s coming over now?” He glances at Cas. “Yeah, I’m still with him. We made dinner if you want to come…. Ah. I see.” His frown seems to deepen. Cas is losing his mind. “Should Cas come get him then? Leahy can follow them home… If she insists, I guess. Do you want to talk to Cas?” Bobby raises an eyebrow. “He’s been bouncing off the walls all day… I’ll tell him… Yeah, see you tomorrow. Bye.”</p><p> </p><p>Bobby hangs up, and Cas wants to vault out of his chair and across the room, take the phone from his hands and call Jody himself. “Well, what did she say?”</p><p> </p><p>“No one was there,” Bobby says grimly. “Compound was abandoned. FBI’s already pulled out of town. Leahy needs to talk to you, and she’s bringing Dean home right now. Jody says he’s pretty upset.”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course he is.” Cas presses his lips together, torn between relief Dean’s okay and worry for his missing friends and family. “He’s going to blame himself.”</p><p> </p><p>“Not his fault,” Bobby says, as if it’s that easy. Cas wishes it were that easy.</p><p> </p><p>“We know that. It won’t change how Dean feels.” Cas thinks of how tense Dean’s been for the last week, wound so tight it looked like the faintest breeze could cause him to snap. He’ll be worse now. “I don’t know what to say to him.”</p><p> </p><p>“Not much we can say,” Bobby says with an air of resigned experience. “Grief doesn’t keep company with reassurance.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas rubs at his temples. He feels the beginning of a stress headache forming. “We’ve got to find them.”</p><p> </p><p>“We—“ Bobby points between them. “—can’t do anything other than be there for him, Cas.”</p><p> </p><p>He knows Bobby’s right. Short of charging into the wilderness to take on an entire cult himself, Cas has no recourse here. He’s helpless, as helpless as Dean must have felt for weeks. As helpless as Dean must feel right now. Cas’s heart aches for him, and he wishes Leahy would drive faster, bring Dean home and let him collapse somewhere he’s safe. Cas would hold him up. All Cas can do is try to hold him up.</p><p> </p><p>It isn’t long before he sees the headlights cutting across the living room. Cas is at the door in seconds, opening it before Leahy and Dean are even out of the car. Dean’s shoulders are slumped, and he’s carrying a cardboard box with his name scrawled on the side in handwriting Cas doesn’t recognize.</p><p> </p><p>“Dean,” Cas starts, but Dean just shakes his head and brushes past him into the house, not even looking Cas in the eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“They weren’t there,” Leahy says by way of explanation, stopping on the bottom porch stoop. “No one was there. They’d cleaned camp and left. He doesn’t know where they went.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is he okay? What was in the box?”</p><p> </p><p>Leahy says quietly, “Castiel, can you close the door?”</p><p> </p><p>He glances behind him. Dean is slumped on the living room couch, wordlessly staring at the unopened box on his lap. Bobby’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen, frowning at them. “I’ll be in in a minute,” Cas tells them, but Dean doesn’t look up. He closes the front door and the screen and takes a seat on the step. After a moment’s hesitation, Leahy sits next to him.</p><p> </p><p>“Samuel Campbell had his own home in the center of the compound,” Leahy says. The night air is so cold Cas can see her breath hanging like puffs of smoke. “They’d left behind the furniture but no personal items. No clothes, pictures. Not even food. Except for the box. It was in Dean’s old room. As far as I could tell, it wasn’t anything special — his old yearbooks we’d already found, some photos. One of them was a family portrait. Dean as a kid, smiling with his dad’s arm around him. But half of the photo was ripped off. The part with his mother.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas’s heart sinks. “You think—”</p><p> </p><p>“It was a message,” Leahy says simply,“for Dean. He’s taken it to mean she’s dead; that Samuel Campbell killed her. He didn’t say — or write — as much, but I can tell. Best case scenario, even if she’s alive her life is clearly threatened. And Campbell guessed we were coming.”</p><p> </p><p>“Shit,” Cas says with force. “<em>Shit</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” Leahy sighs. “That’s not all, though. There was a letter in the box, too, addressed to Dean. He didn’t want to read it in front of us, tried to tell Reidy he knew what it was and it was from his mother, not his father. Reidy ordered him to open it, and Dean refused. So Reidy ripped it out of his hands, said they’d need to analyze it. They almost got into a fist fight right there, but I managed to push Dean back. I told him I’d talk Reidy into giving it back later.”</p><p> </p><p>“What was it?” Cas asks, confused as to why Dean would try to punch an FBI agent over a letter from his mother.</p><p> </p><p>“Dean didn’t know,” Leahy says. “I asked him before we left. He talked to me a little. He said she’d given it to him years ago and told him to open it when he was ‘ready to hear the truth.’ He was afraid to. He said she was crying when she gave it to him, and he didn’t want to know what she’d said that was so terrible she couldn’t tell him out loud. He’s never read it, kept it hidden in his room — or he thought it was hidden.”</p><p> </p><p>“Did Reidy read it?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” Leahy says. Her shoulders slump. “He pulled me aside when we got back to the sheriff’s office because he thought I should be the one to break the news to Dean. Cas, that’s what I needed to talk to you about. It’s—” Leahy pauses, searching for words. “It’s a confession letter.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas finds for a moment he can’t speak. “A what?”</p><p> </p><p>“She confessed that she and Samuel kidnapped Dean,” Leahy says. Cas’s mouth falls open. “And he doesn’t know about it because he’s never read the letter.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas thinks of Dean’s face, soft and earnest. <em>My mother taught me.</em> He loves this woman, this one bright light in what was clearly a miserable childhood, and he’s sitting in Cas’s living room, upset and unaware his entire life is a lie.</p><p> </p><p>“He’s not Dean Campbell,” Leahy says. “Reidy already pulled up the missing children’s database on the drive back.” She takes her phone out and opens it to a photo of a FBI missing persons poster. The picture on the left is of a small, blond child with a bowl haircut and wide green eyes, and the picture on the right… it’s computerized, an image aged-up to show what the child might look like at present. But it’s still strikingly familiar, down to the freckles and the smile. “His name is Dean Winchester. The Campbells are his grandparents, not his parents. And he was kidnapped in 1983, Cas. He’s been missing for <em>twenty-five years</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“Are you sure?” Cas manages to ask, staring at the photo of the child, the name ringing in his ears. <em>Dean Winchester</em>. He remembers that name, knows of that case. A toddler taken from a supermarket. A mother crying on television. A face on a milk carton. <em>Jesus</em>, he thinks. <em>Fuck.</em></p><p> </p><p>“Obviously we need to ask him for a DNA sample to compare to the ones his parents have submitted,” Leahy says, “but Deanna Campbell admitted to it in her letter. Reidy still has it, but I’ve asked him for a copy to give Dean. He’s going to be contacting the PI the parents hired, and we should hear from him by tomorrow at the latest. I’ve got to talk to Dean before then.”</p><p> </p><p>Leahy pauses. “I— I don’t know how to tell him,” she confesses. “He’s barely speaking to me, and he’s already so upset they were gone. Cas, will you go with me when I talk to him?”</p><p> </p><p>Though his throat is dry and his heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest, there’s only one answer Cas can give her. After all, he’d do anything for Dean.</p><p> </p><p>“Of course,” he says, swallowing hard and pushing the fear and the doubt down. “Let’s go tell him.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Interlude: The Devil</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Fort Riley, Kansas, November 1983</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Castiel isn’t allowed to watch television after dinner, but Mom and Dad aren’t here and Gabriel’s at his girlfriend’s house, so there’s no one around to tell him no.</p><p> </p><p>He shoots a furtive glance up the stairs. Anna’s door is closed. She’s probably listening to music on her Walkman and dancing around like she’s in one of those aerobic videos they show on MTV sometimes. Cas rolls his eyes at the very thought. He turns the TV on, but he keeps the volume low.</p><p> </p><p>They live in Army-provided housing on base, so the television, much like the rest of the furniture, is cheap. The picture is blurred and grainy and Cas wishes, not for the first time, that his parents had normal civilian jobs so he could watch The A-Team on a 25-inch screen like the one his cousin Balthazar’s parents bought this summer. Instead, he’s squinting at their 13-inch from a foot away, ass on a pillow so he doesn’t have to touch the gross shag carpet more than he needs to.</p><p> </p><p>“Breaking news out of Lawrence this evening—” Cas reaches for the bunny ears, fiddling until the picture clears somewhat. He’s about to change the channel from the news when the anchor says, “A four-year-old boy has gone missing from the local Piggly Wiggly. Police say the child, Dean Winchester, was last seen being carried by an older male toward the back of the store. The man is not the boy’s father, and he remains unidentified.” Cas slumps back onto the pillow.</p><p> </p><p>A pretty blonde lady is on the screen now, standing in front of what looks like a police station. She’s crying, clinging to the arm of a man with dark hair and darker eyes who’s staring at the ground like he’s lost.</p><p> </p><p>“Please,” the woman says, and her voice cracks. “If you’re out there and listening, please bring Dean home. He’s just a little boy.” Tears roll down her cheeks, and her face contorts as she struggles not to cry. “He loves his brother and cars and playing with his friends. He’s sweet and gentle, and he should be with his family. He needs his mother. Please—”</p><p> </p><p>His mother’s hand comes out of nowhere and turns the television off.</p><p> </p><p>“Wh— What,” Cas sputters incoherently. Naomi Novak looms over him, hands on her hips.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s nine o’clock, Castiel,” she says, pointing to her watch. “What should you be doing right now?”</p><p> </p><p>“Mom, I’m fourteen! Can’t I—”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>What</em>,” she snaps, “are you supposed to be doing right now?”</p><p> </p><p>Cas glares at the hideous carpet. “Homework.”</p><p> </p><p>“Homework.” Naomi snaps her fingers and points to the stairs. “Get going, young man.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas is sure to stomp every step of the way, though he knows he’ll pay for his attitude when his father gets home and his mother rats him out. He even slams his door, loud enough that the thumping of Anna’s dancing in the next room stops for a few seconds. When she resumes her stupid exercises, Cas flings himself onto his bed, staring at the ceiling.</p><p> </p><p>He tries to hold on to his anger at his own mother for the rest of the night, but he just can’t get the face of that crying woman out of his mind. In the morning, he goes downstairs and hugs his mother tight around her stomach. When she asks him what’s wrong, he can’t explain.</p><p> </p><p>The milk carton shows up a few weeks later.</p><p> </p><p>There’s a picture, one he hadn’t seen on the news before his mother turned it off: a smiling little boy with light hair and gummy cheeks showing all his teeth to whoever is behind the camera. Cas ignores his friends’ conversations to read the details.</p><p> </p><p>DEAN HENRY WINCHESTER</p><p>DATE MISSING: 11/02/83</p><p>FROM: Lawrence, KS</p><p>DOB: 01/24/79</p><p>WHITE MALE</p><p>EYES: Green</p><p>HEIGHT: 3’8”</p><p>WEIGHT: 43</p><p>HAIR: Blond</p><p> </p><p>Cas turns the carton so the kid’s smile is facing away from him.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Long Gone</b>
</p><p>
  <b> <em>Winchester family still awaits son’s return 25 years after kidnapping</em> </b>
</p><p>
  <em>By Carver Edlund</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Written for the <em>Lawrence Gazette</em>, January 2008</b>
</p><p> </p><p>A Batman t-shirt, a puffy blue and red chevron jacket, Oshkosh jeans and white sneakers that squeaked with every step he took — Mary Winchester doesn’t need to read the FBI’s missing persons poster to recall what her son was wearing the day he was kidnapped.</p><p> </p><p>“He loved those shoes.” Mary touches a photo of her four-year-old, Dean, taken at a friend’s birthday party just weeks before he went missing. In the photo, a light-haired Dean grins at the camera, icing around his mouth and on his cheeks. He’s wearing the white sneakers. “They got dirty easily, and he’d cry if he couldn’t wear them, so I feel like I washed them every other day. So much so they literally squeaked when he walked. That’s how I first noticed he’d wandered off that day — he was squeaking around behind us, then he was just gone.”</p><p> </p><p>“That day” is how the Winchesters — Mary, her husband John, and their son Sam — refer to November 2, 1983. It started off like any normal November day, cold and wet. Dean was too young to be in anything more than a twice-a-week preschool hosted by the local church, and Sam was a six-month-old baby, so Mary stayed home with them while John worked at the auto shop down the street. That afternoon he came home early, and the whole family went to the Piggly Wiggly to shop for groceries.</p><p> </p><p>“I wish we’d never gone,” Mary says. “That sounds ridiculous to say about a grocery shopping trip, but it’s true. I wish I’d just left the kids home with John, I wish I didn’t feel the need to pick up a pot roast. I wish for a lot of things.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s hectic trying to shop with two small children. Mary remembers Sam crying throughout the day, and John says he must have been up all night the night before, too, because they were both exhausted. John pushed the cart while Mary held Sam, who refused to be set down or he would cry again.</p><p> </p><p>“Neither of us were watching Dean the way we should have,” John says. He has a soft-spoken voice, but there’s an edge to it when he talks about his eldest son. “Sam had colic real bad as a baby, and it was acting up that day. She was rocking him, and I was just reading the grocery list and trying to get us out of there as soon as possible. Dean kept getting distracted by the little cars in the toy aisle, and I remember telling him, ‘No, you have enough toys at home.’</p><p> </p><p>“He was a good kid, helpful even at that age. He didn’t complain when I said no. But he kept looking over his shoulder at the damn cars, and I should’ve known he’d run off.”</p><p> </p><p>Why didn’t they notice the squeak of his shoes as he walked away? It’s a question John and Mary have asked themselves repeatedly over the last 25 years. Was Sam crying at that moment? Was the music in the store too loud? Were they fighting?</p><p> </p><p>“We fought a lot, then,” Mary says. “About money, John’s work hours, how to raise the kids. Everything. I think we argued that day, but I don’t know when or about what. After I turned around and saw Dean was gone, everything else sort of blurs together. But it kills me to think that we were so distracted, maybe he didn’t even wander off to the toy aisle. Maybe that man snatched him up right behind our backs.”</p><p> </p><p>“That man” is what they call the abductor. Security cameras at the Piggly Wiggly caught him in only one shot, entering the front of the store. His head is down, obscured by a jacket hood and dark sunglasses. The footage is blurry, and it’s impossible to see his face or even guess his age. Police estimated his height to be 6’0” or 6’1”, weight between 190 and 210, but those figures are based on eyewitness reports, which are known to be unreliable.</p><p> </p><p>The abductor didn’t exit through the front of the Piggly Wiggly. An employee of the store told police she saw him carrying Dean toward the back, in the direction of the bathrooms. She thought nothing of it because Dean wasn't crying or struggling. She didn’t see them leave, but police believe the abductor took Dean through the employee exit down the hall from the bathrooms. From there they disappeared, never to be seen again.</p><p> </p><p>“I wasn’t worried at first,” John says. “Mary was panicking from the second she realized he was gone, but I told her to relax.” He grimaces at this, and Mary sets a hand on his knee. “I told her to wait while I went to look for him. I just knew I was going to find him messing with those toy cars. I was pissed off, ready to spank him for scaring his mother.”</p><p> </p><p>Mary did wait. She stood in the frozen food aisle, holding a crying Sam, trying not to cry herself.</p><p> </p><p>“I think I knew then that something terrible had happened,” she says, and tears come to her eyes. “Call it a mother’s instincts.”</p><p> </p><p>When she heard John’s voice over the store speaker, no longer angry but nearly frantic, saying, “Dean, it’s Daddy. Please come to the front of the store,” she knew for sure.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Twenty-five years later, and most of Sam Winchester’s childhood memories are still colored by the kidnapping of the brother he never knew.</p><p> </p><p>“We’re in a lot of photos together.” Sam has one of his mother’s albums on his lap, flipping through the pages while his parents watch in silence. “But I obviously don’t remember any of this.”</p><p> </p><p>There are a lot of photos of Sam and Dean — Dean holding Sam at the hospital after his little brother was born, a concentrated wrinkle in his brow; Dean sitting with Sam in the bathtub as Mary tries to bathe them both at once; Dean in his Sunday school clothes kissing Sam’s cheek while John holds the baby.</p><p> </p><p>“He adored Sam,” Mary says. “All my friends with kids told me he’d have a hard time with it, not being the only child anymore. But he couldn’t wait to have a little brother. As soon as we told him I was pregnant, he cleaned out half of his bedroom to make room for Sam. He told me, ‘Mommy, I’ll give him half of my toys.’”</p><p> </p><p>The night Sam was born, John sat him down and gave him what he called the “big brother” talk. He told Dean he needed to watch out for Sam, to love him and protect him because he would be bigger and stronger.</p><p> </p><p>“He took it to heart,” John says. “Whenever Sam would cry, Dean would come find whoever was holding him and sit next to them and say, ‘It’s okay, Sammy, I’m here,’ over and over.”</p><p> </p><p>Most of these stories are new to Sam. Growing up, his parents rarely spoke of Dean.</p><p> </p><p>“I get why,” he says. “They were grieving; they were scared. I know they obsessed over the idea of someone taking me, too. It was too painful to talk about. But it made me kind of resent Dean, if that makes sense? I know it sounds awful, but to me he was like this ghost that haunted my childhood. He was the reason I wasn’t allowed to play outside with my friends or go on class trips or spend the night away from home.”</p><p> </p><p>Looking back, Mary says she wished they’d told Sam more about Dean as his brother, rather than Dean as the boy who was kidnapped.</p><p> </p><p>“To Sam, I think talking about Dean meant we were upset — we’d bring him up when Sam complained about not being allowed to do normal kid things, and Sam came to associate his brother with rules and sadness and fear instead of love,” Mary says. “It didn’t help that John and I were divorced at the time, and he figured out once he was old enough that the reason why we weren't together anymore was because our marriage fell apart after we lost Dean.”</p><p> </p><p>The Winchesters divorced in 1985. It’s not uncommon among families with missing or kidnapped children — the high stress is enough to break even the tightest bonds, and both Mary and John will admit their marriage was already on edge before Dean’s kidnapping. Sam grew up in a divided home, living with his mother because John had turned to alcohol to numb his pain.</p><p> </p><p>“I was a mess,” John says. “I drank a little too much before then, too — I know now that had a lot to do with PTSD from my stint in Vietnam, but back then I didn’t talk about my problems with Mary or anyone else. When Dean disappeared, I fell into the bottle hard. Add that to the blame we both placed on each other for not watching him closely that day, and there was no way we were going to stay together.”</p><p> </p><p>Mary was granted sole custody of Sam, and John also disappeared from their lives in a way. He’d sometimes show up on Sam’s birthday or at Christmas with a present — “Never anything age appropriate,” Sam says — or he would randomly come to a baseball game or a school play. John was a nomad, splitting his time between living with his parents in Lawrence, staying with sympathetic friends around the country, and, increasingly, sleeping in his car.</p><p> </p><p>“I hit rock bottom around ‘95,” he says, “when I called Sam at his mom’s one day and he hung up on me as soon as he realized who I was.”</p><p> </p><p>“I was tired of his shit,” Sam explains. “He called again and I answered, and I told him the truth. He wasn’t a real father to me, never had been, and he’d lost the only other son he had.”</p><p> </p><p>This wasn’t quite true — what John hadn’t told Sam or Mary at that point was that he had another son, Adam Milligan, with a woman he’d met in Michigan in 1990. Like Mary, the boy’s mother had quickly restricted access to her son when she realized how deep-seated John’s alcoholism was.</p><p> </p><p>“Sam was right,” John admits. “I felt guilty about abandoning him, abandoning Adam — and not telling Sam about Adam in the first place. I’d spent over a decade trying to drink away my guilt for losing track of Dean, and all it did was make my life more of a disaster.”</p><p> </p><p>So John went to rehab in 1995. In 1996, he reconnected with Sam and Mary and started to pay his child support on time for the first time. In 1997, he introduced his son and his ex-wife to Adam.</p><p> </p><p>“He was adorable,” Mary says. “Seven years old, happy, curious and lively. His mother had kept him safe from our issues, and I think he’s what we all needed to heal. Sam got to be a big brother, John got to be a real father to them both, and I got to see the people I cared about most live their lives. I think that made me want to live mine again.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Mary had spent her days watching over Sam with an overprotective zeal and her nights scouring newspapers and then the internet for any sign of her long-lost son. After John’s stint in rehab and the introduction of Adam into their family, her priorities changed.</p><p> </p><p>“I still listened to the hotline voicemails. I still do,” Mary says. “I still have a search set up for anything mentioning Dean’s case, and I still talk to our private investigator on a regular basis. But seeing Adam, just a regular kid living a regular life, made me feel like I’d neglected Sam’s childhood because I’d spent so much of it worried about losing him the way I lost Dean. I had one kid right in front of me, and he deserved just as much attention as his brother.”</p><p> </p><p>“They both got more involved in my life after Dad went to rehab,” Sam adds. “At first it was weird — senior year they let me go on the senior skip day trip to Kansas City with minimal questions, and I thought maybe they were sick or something. But then when I brought home my acceptance letter to Stanford, they were super supportive, which I hadn’t been expecting.”</p><p> </p><p>“I wanted him to stay close by,” Mary interjects, “but I knew we couldn’t hold him back anymore.”</p><p> </p><p>By the time Sam left for school, John and Mary had grown closer again. They remarried in 2002.</p><p> </p><p>“We were like partners again after I got out of rehab,” John says. “She helped me stay sober by reminding me I had a family that needed me, then she helped me rebuild my relationship with Sam. She even talked Kate [Milligan, Adam’s mother] into letting Adam spend weekends at my parents in Lawrence until I was on my feet enough to get my own place. We became friends, and eventually that grew back into love.”</p><p> </p><p>Mary admits she had her doubts about whether they could make their relationship work, but they’ve discovered they’re better together than apart.</p><p> </p><p>“We can grieve and mourn with one another now, which we didn’t do back then,” she says. “There were a lot of slammed doors and muffled crying when we lost Dean. Now, if he’s feeling guilty and wants a drink, he’ll tell me. And if I’m feeling sad and want to shut down or run, he won’t let me. We’re working through it for each other, but also for Sam. We both love him more than anything, and that was a good foundation to build back upon.”</p><p> </p><p>Sam graduated from Stanford with honors in 2006 and is currently pursuing a degree at the university’s law school. Adam, who spends the summers with the Winchesters in Lawrence, is a freshman at the University of Michigan.</p><p> </p><p>“They’re both so intelligent,” John says. “Sam is going to be a lawyer; Adam is studying pre-med. It does make me wonder sometimes, what Dean would have grown up to be like.”</p><p> </p><p>Mary thinks about that, too.</p><p> </p><p>“You try to take traits of a four-year-old and project them onto an imaginary adult. Would he be an engineer, because he loved watching his daddy work on cars and building things with his little blocks? Would he be a teacher, because he adored his little brother so much? We may never know,” she says. “He was such a sweet, caring child, though, so I can only imagine whatever he did would involve helping people.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Dean Winchester’s case is considered a cold one, but although his family is doing their best to move on with their lives, it’s never been a cold case to them.</p><p> </p><p>Adam Milligan, the brother who knows the least about Dean, says, “You don’t really go a day without thinking about him. I didn’t find out what happened to him until I was in middle school — after Dad told me about Sam, he told me I had another brother, but that he was gone. When I was 13, he gave me the full story. Ever since, it’s always been on my mind. You see a kid about his age, and you think, ‘Where is he?’ I can’t even imagine how much worse that must be for Dad and Sam and Mary.”</p><p> </p><p>The Winchesters’ home in Lawrence is across town from the house they lived in when Dean was abducted, but they’ve simply moved the photos and toys with them. Most of Dean’s things are in boxes in the attic — his clothes, his blocks and his cars — but the pictures stay out.</p><p> </p><p>“My favorite is this one of all four of us,” Mary says, pointing at a photo on the mantel. In it, she’s holding a baby Sam. John has Dean on his hip, one arm slung around Mary. They’re standing in front of a giant oak tree in a park downtown. Mary still goes there sometimes to talk to Dean.</p><p> </p><p>“There’s no grave,” she says, and her voice shakes, “because he might still be out there. But sometimes I need a place where I feel like I can say hello to him.”</p><p> </p><p>In his darker days, John carried around a drawing Dean made for him — stick figures of their little family next to a blob of a black car — and now that drawing is proudly displayed on the fridge. It’s a somewhat sad sight, amid the other things pinned to the fridge — pictures of Sam and Adam as they grow older and move through life events, wedding invitations and postcards from vacations. But it’s all they have when it comes to Dean.</p><p> </p><p>“I would kill for a new picture of him,” Mary says. “I always hope one day I’ll run across one I haven’t noticed before, but I think I’ve got them all memorized by now.”</p><p> </p><p>They have one VHS tape with Dean in it. John’s father lent them his camcorder for Sam’s birth, and Dean plays a prominent role in the video, standing over his mother’s hospital bed and cooing over his baby brother. The Winchesters don’t watch it often. It’s too difficult.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s weird,” Sam says. “As a kid I wanted to know more about him, but when I watched that video for the first time as a teenager, I cried for two hours straight. I realized that I didn’t know what his voice sounded like until that point. It was like knowing what he sounded like, what he moved like, made it harder.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Private investigator Victor Henriksen has a stack of missing persons cases on his desk that’s at least two inches thick. Ask him which one sticks out to him the most, he’ll demure. But Dean Winchester’s case is somewhat personal.</p><p> </p><p>“I remembered it,” he says. “When [Daniel] Elkins, the old case lead, passed and the Winchesters contacted me, I thought, ‘that name sounds familiar.’ Then after I looked into the case, I was like ‘Damn, this is going to be a hard one.’”</p><p> </p><p>Henriksen is in his mid-thirties, only a few years older than Dean. The case was all over national news in 1983, when he was just a child himself, and he still remembers the press conference Mary Winchester gave after Dean’s kidnapping.</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t forget a mother begging a stranger to give her baby back,” Henriksen says. “Or the picture of said baby all over everywhere for months. I could describe to a tee what Dean looked like at age four, and that’s not just because it’s my case. It’s because his face was on the back of milk cartons at my school for years.”</p><p> </p><p>With the twenty-fifth anniversary of Dean’s abduction rapidly approaching, Henriksen knows finding Dean alive is a long shot. Beyond a long shot, actually — the odds of finding a missing child grow astronomically low after just 48 hours, never mind 20 years. There are no new leads and hardly any tips coming in. The $100,000 reward for any information on Dean or his abductor remains unclaimed. Henriksen won’t let that get him down.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m brand new to this case,” he says. “New eyes can spot some things tired eyes missed. It’s why I’m going through every old hotline call, every little note of Elkin’s, anything I can find. This family deserves closure, one way or another. They deserve to know what happened to their son.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Dean’s 29th birthday was January 24th. Mary has the latest computer rendering of an imagined 20-something Dean pinned to the cork board above the desk in her home office. In the photo, a blond man with smooth, unblemished skin and a wide smile stares into an imaginary camera, like the real Dean looked at her camera almost 25 years ago.</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t imagine him grown-up,” she confesses. “We don’t do much on his birthday. Light a candle, say a prayer. But I think about him all day, try to imagine him looking like this.” She stares at the photo. “It’s hard to picture. I think he had more prominent freckles, but I can't remember for sure.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Sam believes his brother is dead.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s hard not to,” he says. “I know the statistics. I want to be wrong, but at the same time — if I’m wrong, and someone has had him this whole time, what kind of horrible life would that be?” He pauses, looking at the picture in his lap. This one is of Dean alone, caught purple-handed coloring the bathroom wall with crayons. “I want him to be out there and okay. But I’m also a practical person.”</p><p> </p><p>John doesn’t like to talk about whether Dean is dead or alive. He prefers to let Mary lead the way on that discussion, as she does in most things involving Dean’s case. She talks to Henriksen once a month, and John listens in and answers questions when asked directly. She keeps track of all the old tips and newspaper clippings, and he’ll look at them when she asks him to. To do more, he says, tempts him to drink.</p><p> </p><p>“I should be of more help,” he admits when Mary steps out of the room to get water for everyone, “but it’s a hole I’ll fall into if I’m not careful. I used to spend all my time chasing these leads after we lost him, believing the police weren’t doing their job well enough. And every time those leads led to nothing, I drank more. Right now I’m trying to focus on not losing what I still have. It doesn’t mean I’m giving up. It’s just trying to survive.”</p><p> </p><p>Mary has kept the faith, the way she’s kept all of Dean’s things — carefully preserved, fragile and sometimes packed away, but still there.</p><p> </p><p>“I used to tell Dean angels were watching over him every night before he went to sleep,” she says. “I hope he has one watching over him now. It might seem foolish, but most of the time I hope whoever took him was just desperate for a child, that they’ve been taking care of him, raising him as their own. I hope maybe that person will see this, will see he has a mother and a father and two brothers who love him, and maybe they’ll tell him the truth about who he is. I hope maybe Dean will see this, and he will have questions, that he’ll realize he’s been missed. He’s been loved.</p><p> </p><p>“I hope he knows he can always come home.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Dean.” Dean looks up from the box at the sound of Cas’s voice. He’s seen that look on Cas’s face before — the deep frown, the sad blue eyes filled with something that looks too much like pity. His fingers grip uselessly at cardboard. Eileen comes to stand behind Cas’s shoulder, a similar look on her face. For a terrifying moment, he’s sure they’re about to tell him they’ve found the bodies.</p><p> </p><p>Then Eileen says, “You need to know what was in your mother’s letter.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Letter from Deanna Campbell to Dean “Campbell” Winchester, dated January 24, 1998:</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>My dearest Dean,</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Let me say first what I don’t even deserve to say: I love you more the moon and stars. I’ve said that to you since you were a child, still small enough to curl up in my lap, and that has never been a lie. I hope you’ll believe me when I say I never wanted any of this to happen, and I never imagined this deceit would last this long. It won’t make any of what I’m about to tell you any easier to take, but know that I tried to protect you above all else.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Enough excuses. You’re old enough now to know the truth, should you wish to learn it.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Your father is not your father. I am not your mother, though I wish with all my heart I was. You have parents, real parents, who must miss you like a long-lost limb, like they’re missing their very hearts, and you deserve to know them.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Their names are John and Mary Winchester. Mary is my daughter. You’re my grandson, and your father — your grandfather — stole you from them when you were just a child. He followed your family into a grocery store and took you right out from under their noses, and he felt he was justified in this because your mother disobeyed him and ran from him at every turn. He thought he was taking back something that belonged to him — a child of his blood to mold. He was wrong. It was very, very wrong.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>You don’t remember. You were so small and afraid when he brought you to me. I panicked, Dean. I begged him to return you to your mother, but Samuel refused to listen. I didn’t fight hard enough. I was so frightened of him, even then. It’s not a worthy excuse, but it is the truth. I didn’t want him to hurt me. What’s more, I didn’t want him to hurt you. So I let him steal my grand-baby from my own daughter. It’s unforgivable, and I don’t ask you for your forgiveness. I just want you to know. You need to know.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Samuel is a cruel man. Of this you are well aware. I’ve done what I can to shield you from the worst of his temper, and I like to tell myself I succeeded. After all, you’re a healthy, happy teenager. Even his fire can’t dim your light. But as you grow older, it’s become clear his plans for you are the same plans he once had for your mother before she ran — he wants to turn you into the second coming of him. He wants you to control this place when he’s gone, so he can still feel like he’s winning from beyond the grave. So he can feel superior beyond the grave.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>You’re nothing like him. I see your mother in you, and the resemblance grows stronger every day. So headstrong, so vibrant. I loved your mother more than the moon and stars, too. I should have gone with her when she asked me. I should have shielded her from the pain of losing a child. I didn’t. I’ve failed in so many ways, Dean. I’ve failed you, and I’ve failed Mary. I can’t stand to keep failing you. I can’t keep this secret anymore.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>If you want to run, if you want to go home — I’ll help you. I’ll do anything you ask. Let me know you read this letter, and I’ll get you out of here. I’ll give you a real life. It’s the least I can do.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I still love you. More than anything. I always will.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Your Mama</em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Dean listens to Leahy talk, and he lets Cas sit next to him, pressed against his side. He suspects Cas might need the comforting touch more than he does.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t tell them he didn’t need to read the letter to take a guess at what it said. He doesn’t tell them he’s wondered for years about the blonde woman in his dreams, the baby she places in his too-small, too-childlike arms.</p><p> </p><p>He wondered, but he didn’t <em>know</em>. Now that he knows, what does it matter? He still loves his mother, still hates his father. Still needs to protect his people before he can even think of these strangers Leahy is talking about, this family that isn’t his family but <em>is</em>. Dean has to close his eyes or else he’ll cry out of anger and frustration and sheer weariness.</p><p> </p><p>He feels his the words getting stuck in his throat, so all he says is, “I need to… I need to go to bed. I can’t do this right now.”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course,” Cas says before Leahy can protest. Cas is too good to him, too easy on him. He doesn’t know how dangerous Dean is. Dean wonders if he would even care if he did know. “But… We have to discuss this in the morning. Reidy is already making arrangements for a DNA test, and then he’ll be contacting the Winchesters.”</p><p> </p><p>Winchester. Like the rifle. Dean turns the word over in his head, imagines it attached to him like a brand. Would it feel as right as the rifle in his hands? Thinking about it too long makes his head ache.</p><p> </p><p>“We need to focus on finding Samuel,” he protests, and Leahy says, “Don’t you want to meet your parents?” in a shocked tone. Cas, though — Cas just watches him with those sad eyes, and Dean has to resist the urge to grab his hand and ask the man to sleep next to him like a security blanket. He already asks too much of Cas as it is.</p><p> </p><p>“I do,” he says, and it’s not a lie but it’s not his top priority, either. “But I need to know the others are safe.” His mother — his <em>grandmother </em>— is dead. Samuel’s message made that much clear. But maybe he can still save Gwen and everyone else. “And I need—”</p><p> </p><p>“Rest,” Cas says for him. Thank God for Cas. “I know you haven’t been sleeping well all week. It can wait till morning.” He raises an eyebrow at Leahy. “All of it.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s friends can’t wait, but there’s nothing he can do for them dead on his feet and crumbling under the weight of a lifelong lie. So he trudges down the hall, ignoring Cas and Leahy’s worried voices rising and falling behind him, and he closes the door and crawls fully clothed under the blankets and tries to shut his eyes to the world.</p><p> </p><p>Dean touches his fingers to the faded scar on his neck and thinks of two women, one blonde and one gray-haired, and he does not sleep.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Part IV: The Hierophant and the Hermit</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b> <em>1983</em> </b>
</p><p> </p><p>Mommy pays a lot of attention to Dean’s new little brother. He knows she has to because Sam can’t do <em>anything</em> on his own yet, but he still misses their special times together. Mommy used to let Dean do everything with her — he’d sit on her lap to watch cartoons, eat the apples she didn’t use in her pies, follow her around the house with his stuffed bear while she did her grown-up chores. Now she usually asks Dean if he can play by himself while she carries Sammy everywhere. Dean loves Sam a lot, but he’s still a little jealous sometimes.</p><p> </p><p>Like right now, when he’s trying to show Mommy the new cars in the toy aisle and she bats his hand away with a sharp, “Dean, not now!” Sam looks at Dean over their mom’s shoulder with his baby eyes then starts to cry. Dean scowls at him. He loves Sam, but he doesn’t love when Sam cries because it makes Mommy and Daddy stressed.</p><p> </p><p>“Daddy,” Dean tries next, though he knows his pleading is less likely to work on his father, “can we look at toys?”</p><p> </p><p>“No.” Daddy is looking at the paper in his hands, the one Dean can’t read yet. “We’re here to get food only, okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Daddy is already turning away from him, pushing the cart toward the vegetable aisle, which has to be the most <em>boring</em> aisle in the whole store. Mommy is rocking Sam, but the baby’s still blubbering. They’re not paying any attention to him, so he goes to the toy aisle by himself.</p><p> </p><p>The shiny new Hot Wheels are on a shelf too high for him to reach, so Dean simply stares up at them, transfixed. They seem to glow inside their plastic cases, fire engine red and deep blue like Mommy’s favorite sweater. He reaches a pudgy hand up as far as it can go, but he can’t quite make it—</p><p> </p><p>“Here.” A stranger with a deep voice and a bald head grabs the box off the tall shelf and hands it to Dean. “This is the one you wanted?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Dean breathes, holding the box with the red car to his chest. He looks up at the stranger. The man smiles at him.</p><p> </p><p>“Dean, isn’t it?” And Dean blinks, confused. How does the stranger know his name? “I have more cars like that out back. Would you like to see them?”</p><p> </p><p>Yes, he would like to, but Mommy and Daddy said no cars at all, and he’s not sure where they went… Dean looks back down the aisle, but the shelves are too tall and he can’t see anybody. “My Mommy’s with the vegetables,” he informs the man.</p><p> </p><p>“What if I take you to her after we see the cars?”</p><p> </p><p>This seems like a good plan to Dean. “Okay,” he says. He’s shocked when the man bends down to pick him up, but he doesn’t protest. His feet <em>are</em> tired from walking all through the store, and Mommy can’t carry him <em>and</em> Sam and Daddy has to push the cart around. He relaxes in the stranger’s hold, slumping against the man’s tan jacket and looking down at his new toy.</p><p> </p><p>The man walks quickly through the store, the way Mommy sometimes does if she’s in a hurry. Dean thinks it’s kind of fun to walk fast. When he’s big, he’ll walk fast everywhere, like this man and Mommy.</p><p> </p><p>They go out a back door, and Dean shivers in the cold. “My truck is right here,” the stranger says, and he starts to jog to the back fence where an old yellow truck sits idling. “The toys are in there.”</p><p> </p><p>When he opens the door and places Dean on the front seat, Dean doesn’t protest at first. After all, this nice man gave him a new car, and he said he has more here. Dean looks around the seat and the floorboard, screwing his face up at a dirty napkin and some fast food wrappers, but he doesn’t see any more cars.</p><p> </p><p>The man gets into the driver’s seat and slams his own door shut. Then he stars to drive away.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey,” Dean says, and he scrambles to sit on his knees so he can see over the dashboard. The man is driving out of the parking lot, <em>away </em>from the store. Away from his parents. “My Mommy—”</p><p> </p><p>“You can call me Papa,” the man says, ignoring Dean’s protest. “I’m going to take you home with me, Dean. I’m taking you where you belong.”</p><p> </p><p>“No!” Dean shouts. His little hands scramble for the door, but it’s locked and he can’t remember how Mommy and Daddy open it for him. The man reaches over and pushes him down into the seat, and Dean cries. He starts to kick and flail his arms, hitting the man as hard as he can. “No! I want my Mommy!”</p><p> </p><p>“She’s gone,” the man says in a raised voice, “and I’m taking you to your new mother.”</p><p> </p><p>“No!” Dean screams again. He tries to bite the man, but his teeth don’t make it through the thick jacket sleeve. The man presses his arm harder into Dean’s chest, holding him back against the seat. “Stop! You’re hurting me!”</p><p> </p><p>“Shut up,” the man says lowly, and Dean is terrified. This is worse than the monsters under his bed Daddy says don’t exist, worse than when he fell off his bike and hurt his knee so bad, worse than thunderstorms and bumps in the night. He’s so, so afraid, and he can’t shut up because he can’t stop crying.</p><p> </p><p>“Mommy,” he begs, and the man ignores him. “Mommy!”</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>They drive for a very long time. Dean cries himself to sleep, and when he wakes up, they’re somewhere far from home. He doesn’t recognize this road, surrounded by trees on all sides, pressing in on the truck. He cowers as he looks up at the thick, gnarled branches blocking out most of the sky, and he misses home.</p><p> </p><p>“I want my Mommy,” he tries again, and the man doesn’t answer. He does slow the truck down, pulling off the main road and onto a bumpy gravel driveway. Dean’s hands shake as he grips his seatbelt and bounces up and down with the truck. Mommy would put him a car seat, but the man doesn’t have one.</p><p> </p><p>The bumpy road seems like it goes on forever. The trees are even thicker here, and Dean can’t see very far into the woods. There aren’t a lot of trees at home. His eyes burn with tears. How many monsters could hide in these woods in the dark? The stranger won’t protect him from them like Daddy would.</p><p> </p><p>Eventually the man brings the truck to a stop, and Dean looks out the window to see a little white house, lopsided and faded with age. The man stops the car. “No more crying,” he orders in a stern voice that Dean hates more than Daddy’s. His eyes are hard as they rove over Dean’s face. “You need to act like a big boy when you meet your mama.”</p><p> </p><p>“I have a mommy,” Dean whimpers, and the man grabs his arm and pulls him out of the car. Dean is limp in his hold, too tired to fight anymore. It’s done him no good anyway. The man is too big, too strong. Dean is too small. He’s not big, not like Mommy said he would be, not tough like Daddy is. He’s just scared.</p><p> </p><p>The man carries him to the front porch, where he holds Dean with one arm and pounds on the door with the other. There are quick, light footsteps inside the house, then the door opens. An older woman with short blonde hair and little wrinkles around her mouth and eyes stands there. She looks at Dean, and he looks back at her and tries not to cry like a big boy. The woman’s eyes widen.</p><p> </p><p>“What have you done?” she snaps, and Dean flinches, but there’s nowhere for him to hide. He can’t turn into the man’s jacket again, because the man is not safe, and this strange woman is angry at him and he’s done nothing wrong. He starts to cry.</p><p> </p><p>“Watch your tone,” the man says in that same low, scary voice. “You’re upsetting the boy.”</p><p> </p><p>“Me upsetting…,” the woman says, and now she looks like she’s going to cry, too. “Samuel—”</p><p> </p><p>The man pushes past her into the house, and Dean’s arm brushes against her shirt sleeve. She watches him with watery eyes, and Dean doesn’t like seeing an adult cry anymore than he likes crying himself.</p><p> </p><p>“This is Dean,” the man says, and he sets Dean down on the rug in the middle of the living room. It’s itchy under Dean’s fingers, and there are no toys here. His tears run silently down his cheeks. “Dean, this is Mama. Say hello.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean shakes his head, and the man yells, “Say hello!”</p><p> </p><p>“Samuel,” the woman says again. “You have to take him back. You <em>have</em> to.”</p><p> </p><p>The man grabs the woman by the arm and yanks her away, down a hallway with no lights. Dean crouches on the rug and cries, trying not to picture all the monsters who could get him in this dark room. He wants his Mommy, wants to call to her, but when he opens his mouth no words come out. No sounds come at all, except for his soft weeping.</p><p> </p><p>He sits there for a long time, long enough to feel so tired he lies down on the rug. He stares under the ratty old couch, looks at the dust bunnies collecting underneath it. Dean hopes the man isn’t going to leave him alone forever in this dark, dirty room. He hopes the man will come back and take him home. He wants to see Mommy and Daddy and Sam again.</p><p> </p><p>The man doesn’t come back. It’s the woman who picks him up off the floor, who rocks him and holds his head gently against her shoulder while he cries. It’s the woman who whispers, “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. You’re okay. You’re safe. I’ll take care of you,” until he falls asleep in her arms.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>He stays in the dark house with the woman and the man for days, and he does not talk to them. He just can’t, even when the man yells. The woman is much kinder, and Dean wishes he could speak to her when the man leaves, but no words come out.</p><p> </p><p>Dean hides under the table in the kitchen once after the man yells at him, and the woman comes to sit under it with him. She shows him her hand, changed into a funny shape with two fingers and her thumb sticking up.</p><p> </p><p>“I love you,” she whispers. “It means ‘I love you.’”</p><p> </p><p>Dean tries to copy her, and her hands are gentle when she corrects him, pulling the right fingers into place.</p><p> </p><p>That night she wakes him up, tells him to be quiet, and carries him out of the dark house and into the darker night. Dean buries his face in her shoulder so he can’t see the woods around them, and one of her hands rubs his back. She only lets go to put him in the man’s truck. “Shhh,” she murmurs in response to his questioning look. “I’m going to take you home to your Mommy.”</p><p> </p><p>He’s so relieved he starts to cry. The woman is about to close the door when a hand comes out of the darkness and grabs her, spinning her around and pinning her to the side of the truck. She screams, and Dean cries harder.</p><p> </p><p>“What the fuck are you doing?” the man yells. “What the fuck!” and Dean buries his head in his hands and wills the monsters away, but the yelling and the crying don’t stop no matter how tightly he squeezes his eyes shut.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Mama tells him they can’t run away again. Dean likes Mama, but he still misses his Mommy.</p><p> </p><p>He’s afraid of the man who wants to be called Papa. He doesn’t know why Papa won’t let Mama take him home.</p><p> </p><p>He wants to go home so bad. After Mama and Papa have gone to bed, he closes his eyes and he prays to the angels Mommy always talks about. He asks them to find him and save him.</p><p> </p><p>They never come.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>1986</em> </b>
</p><p> </p><p>Papa is in an unusually good mood.</p><p> </p><p>“We’re moving out,” he tells Dean brightly. “We’re moving up in the world, Dean-o!”</p><p> </p><p>Dean crunches his cereal between his teeth, being sure to swallow before he responds. Papa doesn’t like him to talk with his mouth full. “We’re moving where?”</p><p> </p><p>“West Virginia!” Papa says, and he slaps a map on the kitchen table. “Mountain mama!”</p><p> </p><p>This is a reference to a song, Dean knows. He looks blankly at the map. He can read some of the town names, but others are too long for him. “Which town?” They’ve moved a lot since he was little. He remembers at least five separate towns, all in different states. That’s a lot of places to live, a lot of places to come in as the new kid and be left out of everything because everyone else already has friends. Dean doesn’t really want to move again, but he knows if he says that Papa will get mad.</p><p> </p><p>“No town.” Papa is clearly pleased by this. “We’ve got a big spot of land in the mountains, just for us and some old friends.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean blinks. Papa and Mama don’t talk to anybody that he knows of. He didn’t know they had friends. “Who?”</p><p> </p><p>“Your cousins.” Papa pulls out a chair and sits down across from Dean. “Some of them are your age, too.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean tries to imagine these mysterious cousins he’s never even heard of. He pictures a group of boys with blond hair and freckles like his. Other kids he’s met at school have cousins and brothers and sisters. They seem to like it.</p><p> </p><p>“Will we be friends?” he asks tentatively, because other kids have friends and he wants them too.</p><p> </p><p>“Of course,” Papa says, waving a hand through the air as if Dean’s crazy for asking. “Christian is a tough kid; he’ll be good for you.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean says, “Okay” and looks down at his lap. He skinned his knee the other day when he was trying to run across a fallen log and tripped and fell. It hurt a lot and he cried a little, and Papa told him to “toughen up.”</p><p> </p><p>“There are a few other boys, too. And a girl, I think.” Papa pulls the map closer to his side of the table, beaming as he traces their route to these far away mountains. Dean resumes eating his cereal. “And a couple of adults to help us build houses. We’ll make our own town.”</p><p> </p><p>“Our own school, too?”</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe.” Papa frowns, and Dean shrinks in on himself. He hopes he didn’t make Papa unhappy with his question. “We’ll see about school. I don’t think you need it.”</p><p> </p><p>“He does.” Dean’s surprised to hear Mama’s voice coming from behind them. He turns in his chair to see she’s standing in the doorway, a shopping bag hanging from her elbow. Her graying hair is tied back in a short ponytail, and she looks tired. “We agreed if we did this we’d keep him in school, Samuel. I don’t know how to teach older students and he’s too smart to stop his lessons.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean smiles a little to himself. He likes it when Mama tells him he’s smart. Papa never says stuff like that.</p><p> </p><p>“We’ll see,” Papa repeats in that low tone Dean knows means he’s done talking.</p><p> </p><p>Mama walks over to the table and sets the bag down. Something inside clunks against the table, and Dean tries not to grimace when he spots the canned beets. They always eat canned everything, and he hates it. But he doesn’t want to make Papa mad by complaining, and he definitely doesn’t want to hurt Mama’s feelings. He knows she tries hard to make good meals, and he also knows they don’t have a lot of money. The kids at his new schools have made fun of his Goodwill clothes too many times for him to not know what “poor” means.</p><p> </p><p>Mama places her hand on his shoulders. “Dean Bean, why don’t you go get ready for the bus? Let me talk to your father for a moment.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean looks down at his bowl, empty except for the milk he’d planned to drink. “Uh, okay.” He stands and starts to go to his room until Mama stops him with a hand on his arm and a pointed look at the sink. “Oh, right.”</p><p> </p><p>He takes the bowl to the sink then slinks out of the kitchen and into the hall. Dean stops midway down, back against the wall as he listens for his parent’s voices.</p><p> </p><p>“He needs to grow up like a normal kid,” he hears Mama say. “We’ve already moved him so much—”</p><p> </p><p>“Do you want them to find us? Because that’s what we’ll happen if we let him be a normal child, if we let him stay in one place for too long.” Papa’s voice rises. “He’s not normal, Deanna!”</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s shoulders slump.</p><p> </p><p>“Samuel—”</p><p> </p><p>“I swear, if you tell me one more time we have to take him back <em>you will regret it</em>.” The words are spit out with such viciousness that Dean can’t stand to listen anymore. He hurries down the hall to his room and shuts the door softly behind him.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>The mysterious cousins are a blur of a movement around the camp, chasing each other in circles around the bonfire the adults built in the center of the clearing that will be their new home. Papa introduced Dean to his adult cousins earlier (he doesn’t think they’re all actually his cousins, because a lot of them don’t look like they’re related at all), but no one’s bothered to introduce him to the other kids. So he hangs back at the edge of the camp and watches them laugh and yell and tackle each other, and he wishes he were brave enough to join.</p><p> </p><p>There are five of them — four boys and one girl — and they all seem close to his age. The boys are loud and rowdy, but the girl is the one who draws Dean’s eye. They’ve been playing tag for twenty minutes now, and she’s winning. She’s quicker than the boys, sharper and smarter. He watches in awe as she ducks under their outstretched hands and jumps off boxes and tree trunks, hides behind adults and kicks dirt toward their faces when they get too close. Maybe she fights a little dirty, but she’s <em>tough</em>. That’s what Papa told Dean he needed to be.</p><p> </p><p>He’s too shy to make his move while they’re playing, so Dean waits until after all the adults have finished dinner, and then he goes to sit next to the girl by the fire.</p><p> </p><p>“Hi,” he says, and she frowns at him, mud smeared across her nose like some wild thing. “I’m Dean.”</p><p> </p><p>“Gwendolyn,” the girl says, “but I hate that name. You can call me Gwen, or you can call me nothing.” She says this with the air of someone who’s had to repeat herself a thousand times.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay.” Dean hesitates for a moment before cracking a tentative smile. “Nice to meet you, Nothing.”</p><p> </p><p>For a moment, Gwen just stares at him, and Dean’s stomach turns. He’s done this wrong, he’s messed things up with his stupid joke, she’ll never want to be his friend —</p><p> </p><p>Then Gwen laughs, a loud cackle that startles the grown-ups sitting closest to them. “That’s pretty good,” she says, and she bumps her shoulder into his, jarring him so much he almost drops his bowl of beans. “I like you.”</p><p> </p><p>The easy way she declares <em>I like you </em>and the comfort in how she continues to lean against his side as they eat has Dean smiling down into his bowl for the rest of the meal.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t know for sure because it’s never really happened before, but he thinks he’s made a friend.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>1990</em> </b>
</p><p> </p><p>At this point he’s used to the feel of a gun in his hands. Papa’s old Colt revolver, a Glock handgun, Smith and Wesson rifles — he’s shot them all, again and again, until lining up a target at the end of a barrel feels as natural as breathing.</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s watching his breathing now, careful to exhale just as he pulls the trigger. The shotgun fires, slamming into his shoulder, but he’s not some baby. He’s prepared for the recoil, rocking back on his heels to absorb the shock. The bullet lands just right of the bullseye, and Dean grins as he lowers the gun, carefully pointing it at the ground.</p><p> </p><p>“Good job, Dean,” Papa says, and Dean tries not to beam. Praise from Papa is rare indeed, and Dean’s learned the best way to earn it is to be good at the stuff Papa asks him to do — fight training and sharpshooting.</p><p> </p><p>Next to him, Christian fires and hits the edge of the target. “Don’t squint so much,” Papa snaps. “Your eyes are practically closed.” Christian’s cheeks turn red, and Dean looks at Gwen and raises his eyebrows. She rolls her eyes. Neither of them can stand her brother, so it’s hard to feel bad for him when he messes up.</p><p> </p><p>“I think that’s enough for today.” Papa walks along the line of cousins, making sure they’ve put the safeties on and unloaded the chambers. “Some of you may wish to stay and practice—” He pauses in front of Christian. “—but the formal lesson is over. If you’re on dinner duty, get to the mess hall.”</p><p> </p><p>Gwen and Dean are on dinner duty, unfortunately, so they take off down the hill toward the camp together, racing each other at top speed. Dean’s legs are longer than hers (<em>finally</em>), but Gwen’s crafty. She pushes his back just as they get going, and Dean has to windmill his arms to avoid crashing face first into the brush. She darts around him, nimble as a fox, barking a loud “HA” over her shoulder as she goes.</p><p> </p><p>“No fair!” Dean yells as he regains his balance. She’s already several strides ahead of him and gaining ground fast. He pumps his arms and legs with a vigor, desperate to catch her. He hates to lose to anyone, but especially to Gwen. She’ll never let him live it down, and if Papa hears about it — Well, Dean’s just tired of constantly disappointing his father, and he doesn’t want the good mood from target practice to vanish so fast.</p><p> </p><p>He just manages to catch her as they reach the bottom of the slope, and they both have to drag their feet to stop before they run into Olivia Lowry as she’s bringing out the wet laundry to dry. “Watch it!” she calls, but they ignore her as they stumble further into camp.</p><p> </p><p>“I won!” Gwen declares, throwing her arms out wide. Dean tackles her to the ground.</p><p> </p><p>“Nuh uh!” Gwen only laughs at him, and they wrestle in the dirt like the wild children they are until one of the adults yells, “Cut it out you two!” Laughing, competition forgotten for a moment, they sprint behind the mess hall to wash up in the big outdoor sinks.</p><p> </p><p>“I beat you,” Gwen says smugly as she dumps too much soap into her palms.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t waste it,” Dean echoes what Mama says all the time. “Here, give me some!” He elbows his way into her space and rubs his dirty hands all over hers. She shrieks and elbows him back. “And you didn’t win!”</p><p> </p><p>He pushes back, and soon they’re grappling again, getting soap and water and mud everywhere.</p><p> </p><p>“Did so!”</p><p> </p><p>“Did not!”</p><p> </p><p>“Did—”</p><p> </p><p>They pause mid-fight, Dean’s arms still wrapped around Gwen’s neck and her fingernails digging into his wrists as loud voices erupt from behind the kitchen windows above them.</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t believe this.” That’s Olivia. Dean and Gwen pull away from each other, wide-eyed. Is she telling on them? “He can’t seriously expect us to keep them here.”</p><p> </p><p>“Do you really think Samuel is going to do anything about it?” says a voice that sounds like Tara’s.</p><p> </p><p>Gwen scrunches her nose and looks at Dean. He shakes his head. He doesn’t know what they’re talking about. Gwen grabs his hand and pulls him to the side of the sink, right under the window where they can’t be seen.</p><p> </p><p>“As if one stolen child isn’t bad enough,” Olivia says, voice lower than it was before. The cousins stare at each other, wide-eyed. “And the feds will know it was Asa who took them. They’ll be looking for him the rest of his life.”</p><p> </p><p>“So we won’t send him into town,” Tara says dismissively.</p><p> </p><p>“The kids will stick out like a sore thumb if they go to school with the others.”</p><p> </p><p>“Samuel wants to start homeschooling all of them anyway.” Dean makes a face at this. He likes school now that wherever he goes he goes with Gwen.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t like it.” Olivia slams something down on the kitchen counter with a loud <em>bang</em>. “It’s reckless, and it could ruin everything.”</p><p> </p><p>“Again,” Tara says, voice so low Dean has to strain to hear her, “what good do you think bringing this to Samuel will do? He has more motivation than anyone else here to stay quiet and let Asa keep those kids. And he isn’t wrong. They deserve to be brought up in a home where they’ll learn to defend themselves, Liv. This is the real world, and there’s no room for weakness. We’ll train that out of them.”</p><p> </p><p>The women are silent for several seconds. Gwen clings to Dean’s hand like a lifeline. Then Olivia says, “I just think we’ve crossed too many lines. I’m all for being prepared and training and living off the land as much as we can, but— They’re <em>children</em>. All three of them. Children belong with parents who love them.”</p><p> </p><p>“Are you trying to say Samuel and Deanna don’t love Dean?”</p><p> </p><p>“I know Deanna does,” Olivia snaps back at Tara.</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s breath quickens. Gwen squeezes his hand tighter.</p><p> </p><p>“You need to be careful what you say.” Tara’s voice is hard. “You’re going to get yourself in hot water talking like that.”</p><p> </p><p>Olivia laughs. “As if he doesn’t already hate me for not being ‘committed enough.’ Tara, you know I’m right. It’s wrong, taking those kids—”</p><p> </p><p>“Shut up!” Gwen grabs Dean’s hand and yanks, pulling him away from the mess hall and the arguing adults. She runs and he blindly follows, heart racing and mind spinning, barely managing to keep his balance as she leads him into the woods.</p><p> </p><p>They don’t stop until they reach their place, a grove of trees that have wound together over the years to form a little canopy. Gwen pulls him through the gap in the trunks, and she doesn’t let go of his hand until they’re both sitting in the dirt, safe under the cover of the intertwining branches.</p><p> </p><p>“What do you think they were talking about?” Gwen asks. “Asa stole children? Why did they keep mentioning you?”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know,” Dean snaps, nerves frayed and sensitive. He buries his face in his knees. <em>I know Deanna does.</em> Does that mean his father doesn’t love him? “How should I know?”</p><p> </p><p>Gwen is quiet for a moment. “Sorry,” she whispers.</p><p> </p><p>His dad <em>does</em> love him, Dean tells himself. After all, Papa told him he did a good job today. And he was happy with Dean’s progress during martial arts training last week. And he— And he yells a lot and he tells Dean he’s too soft and he needs to spend less time playing with Gwen and more time focusing on becoming a leader but—</p><p> </p><p>Dean can’t help it. He starts to cry. He presses his face harder into his muddy knees, hiding from Gwen and muffling the sounds of his whimpering against his skin. He clings to his legs, folded in on himself until he’s as small as he can be, like he can disappear and never disappoint Papa again. And he must be disappointing Papa if the whole camp knows his father doesn’t really love him. He must be.</p><p> </p><p>He can’t even think about the other stuff Olivia said. He doesn’t know what it means. He doesn’t want to know.</p><p> </p><p>Gwen is a good cousin and a good friend. She lets him cry and she pretends she doesn’t notice the dirty tear streaks on his cheeks when he finally looks up. She goes to the mess hall alone and tells the grown-ups Dean got sick after target practice. She covers for him so he can go home.</p><p> </p><p>Papa isn’t there. Mama’s sitting by the window in her bedroom, looking out over the forest with an odd look on her face. When she sees him, she forces a smile.</p><p> </p><p>“Dean,” she says, opening her arms, and because Papa isn’t here he feels safe to step into her embrace and cling to her. “What’s wrong, baby? Aren’t you supposed to be helping in the kitchen tonight?”</p><p> </p><p>“Nothing’s wrong,” he lies. “My stomach just hurts real bad.”</p><p> </p><p>His mother kisses his forehead, and he closes his eyes. “Go lay down then. I’ll bring you dinner later if you feel good enough to eat.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean pulls back. “Will Papa be mad?”</p><p> </p><p>She frowns, reaching out a hand to cup his cheek. “Let me worry about Papa. He’s too busy now to notice you’re gone anyway.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean nods, and he hugs her again, arms tight around her shoulders. Mama huffs a laugh. “You’re sure that’s all that’s bothering you?” she asks.</p><p> </p><p>Dean lies again. “I’m sure.”</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Samuel introduces the entire camp to Asa Fox’s children at breakfast the next day. They’re twins, no more than toddlers. The little girl smiles at everyone, but the little boy hides behind his father and doesn’t speak.</p><p> </p><p>Gwen catches his eye from across the room, blatant concern written across her face. Dean looks away.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>1994</em> </b>
</p><p> </p><p>Dean waits until a night when they’re having dinner alone as a family to ask the big question.</p><p> </p><p>“Pa.” Samuel’s forkful of mashed potatoes pauses halfway to his mouth, and his father raises an eyebrow at him. “I was wondering—” Dean’s voice trails off. He’s been trying to work up the courage to ask for weeks, ever since he saw the posters going up in the halls of his new school. Gwen called him crazy, and he knows she’s probably right. There’s no way Pa will say yes, but Dean can’t get the idea out of his mind.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, spit it out,” Pa says impatiently, setting his fork back down. Dean’s cheeks heat at the admonition. He should no better than to keep Pa waiting. If he has any chance of getting what he wants, he has to be direct.</p><p> </p><p>“Baseball tryouts are starting next week,” he says in a rush. Mama blinks at him from across the table. Dean pushes on. “One of the coaches asked me if I’d be interested in joining. I think— I think I’d be good at it. I want to tryout.”</p><p> </p><p>Pa just stares at him, face unreadable.</p><p> </p><p>“I know it’s kind of stupid,” Dean admits, hiding his shaking hands under the table, “but I thought it would be fun… And since I’m doing pretty good with training with you, I just thought—”</p><p> </p><p>“You thought what?” Pa interrupts. “That I’d let you start slacking off so you could play <em>sports</em>?” He spits the word out as if it offends him.</p><p> </p><p>“I promise I wouldn’t slack off, Pa—”</p><p> </p><p>“Frankly, Dean,” Pa says, “your sniping skills could use some work. And don’t think I didn’t see Gwen throw you down while you were sparring the other day. If a tiny girl can best you, then you need to be training more, not less.”</p><p> </p><p>“But I am training every day, and I’ll keep up—”</p><p> </p><p>“No, you won’t.” Pa leans forward, his elbows on the table. Mama watches, her lips pressed into a thin line. “If I let you join the baseball team, what’s next? Football? Band practice? A girlfriend who takes up all your time? If I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousand times, Dean — you are not a normal kid. You don’t have time for trivial things like sports. The apocalypse is coming, and if you’re going to help me lead the survivors to glory, then you have to be prepared.”</p><p> </p><p>“What apocalypse?” Dean snaps, and Mama says, “Dean!” He ignores her, his anger building like a spark from a match burning into a wildfire. “You say that shit all the time, but whenever someone asks you when the end of the world is coming, you can’t say! You don’t even know! You’re keeping us all trapped out here for nothing!”</p><p> </p><p>As soon as he finishes his rant, dread settles deep in his stomach, throwing sand all over his burning rage. Pa is silent, but his eyes betray a storm inside. Dean swallows hard. “I—” he says, as if he can apologize for this. As if Pa would ever forgive him for this.</p><p> </p><p>“Get out of my sight,” Pa snarls. “And hurry, if you know what’s good for you.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean doesn’t waste any time. He doesn’t even look at Mama as he flees, taking the stairs two at a time as he runs to his room. He tries to close the door quietly behind him, then he slumps against it as if that will keep Pa out when he comes to find Dean.</p><p> </p><p>He pulls at his hair, tears forming in his eyes. How could he be so <em>stupid</em>? No one questions Pa. No one. That’s not how life here works. You listen to what he says, you follow his every order, you train like the good little soldiers Pa wants you to be. That’s all Dean’s ever gonna be — a soldier. And he’s not even good at it.</p><p> </p><p>Like he did when he was a child, Dean brings his knees to his chest and presses his face into them. For the first time in a long time, he tries to pray.</p><p> </p><p><em>I’m sorry for what I said</em>, he thinks. He’s not sure who he’s praying to. When he was a little kid, Mama would tell him angels were watching over him. He guesses he’s appealing to them. <em>I shouldn’t be disrespectful, I know. Please, don’t let Pa get too mad at me.</em> A terrifying thought occurs to him, and Dean prays, <em>Please don’t let him take it out on Mama.</em></p><p> </p><p>It feels like he sits there for ages, back pressed hard against his bedroom door as if that will keep Pa out. He prays and he shakes, and he tries not to imagine what Pa might do him.</p><p> </p><p>When he hears the footsteps thudding up the stairs, he knows he doesn’t have to imagine anymore.</p><p> </p><p>Pa forces the door open with a bang, and Dean has to scramble to get out of the way or be slammed into the wall. He crawls backward on his hands and feet to the middle of the room. Pa looms over him, face expressionless. But Dean can see the anger in his eyes, knows it doesn’t bode well for him.</p><p> </p><p>“Have you talked like that in front of anyone else?” Pa asks.</p><p> </p><p>“N-no.”</p><p> </p><p>“Good.” Pa’s across the room in a stride, bending down to grab Dean tightly around his shoulders and yanking him to his feet with a swift tug. He shakes Dean so hard his teeth clash together, and Dean closes his eyes. The hit is a quick one, a glancing blow across his chin that throws off his balance enough he half falls into the edge of his bed. It’s not the worst hit he’s taken from Pa, but it is the first time Pa has hit him in the face. And Dean knows it could have been worse if his father wasn’t angry enough to forget to aim right.</p><p> </p><p>Pa stands over him, breathing hard with his fists still clenched at his sides. Dean watches him, wide-eyed. His chin doesn’t really hurt, but he dreads what Pa might do next. His stomach churns as the older man steps forward, still glaring down at him.</p><p> </p><p>“You ever talk like that to me again, you’ll regret it,” Pa says. “And you’re done with school. Mama will finish your lessons from here on out.” He points a finger in Dean’s face, and Dean cowers beneath him. “Never question me again.”</p><p> </p><p>When Pa leaves the room, Dean’s knees give out and he falls all the way to the floor, collapsing with his face pressed into his mattress. He breathes sharply, in through the nose, out through the mouth, and tells himself <em>do not cry, do not cry</em>. Crying will make it worse. It doesn’t even hurt, really. He’s lucky. Pa showed him mercy.</p><p> </p><p>After a few agonizing minutes of trying to control his breathing, Dean picks himself up off the floor. He’s afraid to enter the hall, so he doesn’t go to their shared bathroom and wash up or brush his teeth. He takes of his shirt and jeans and gets into bed and pulls the covers up around his ears like that will keep the monsters away.</p><p> </p><p>He’s not sleeping when his door creaks open much later. Dean tries to control his flinch, tries to keep his body still as soft footsteps echo across the floor.</p><p> </p><p>“Dean?”</p><p> </p><p>He pulls the covers down to look at Mama. There’s not a lot of light coming in through the window, but he can see she’s been crying.</p><p> </p><p>“Did he hurt you?” he asks before he can stop himself, but he has to know.</p><p> </p><p>Mama sits down on the edge of the bed. “No, baby. Did he hurt you?” Her voice is filled with a mixture of dread and concern.</p><p> </p><p>Immediately Dean regrets saying anything. Every move he makes in this house, in this camp, is calculated to protect her above all else. Everything he does for Pa he’s really doing for Mama, because he’s seen what Pa’s temper can do. He never wants her to see it. Doesn’t even want her to know about it, and he’s just come so close to revealing the truth.</p><p> </p><p>“No,” Dean lies. He has no idea if the hit left a bruise across his chin. “I was just worried. I’ve never seen him so mad—” Another lie.</p><p> </p><p>She reaches out and runs her fingers through his hair. He feels like crying. He doesn’t let himself.</p><p> </p><p>“He told me he’s not letting you go back to school,” she says. “I’ll try to talk him out of it when he calms down.”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t!” Dean says, a little too loudly and quickly. Her hand stills. “Just— Maybe it’s a good idea. For me to stay here, I mean.” He tries to smile. “I’ll get to spend more time with you.” <em>I’ll get to make sure you’re safe</em>.</p><p> </p><p>She frowns. “He’s wrong, you know,” Mama says quietly, as if she doesn’t want Pa to overhear. “You’re still just a child, and you’re <em>my</em> child. You should get to do normal kid things. I want you to be able to play baseball and learn to drive and meet nice girls.”</p><p> </p><p>The last thing Dean needs is Mama telling Pa this shit. Then he really will take his anger out on her.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay, Ma,” he says. “I know I’m not normal. I know I shouldn’t fight with him about it.”</p><p> </p><p>She opens her mouth as if to say something, to argue, but then she closes it. He can see her eyes really are watery now. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I wish I were a better mother. I wish I could talk some <em>sense</em> into him.”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t,” Dean repeats. ”You’re the best mom.” And he means it. She does what she can. It’s not her fault Pa is what he is, that she’s just as trapped as everyone else in this goddamn compound. “You don’t need to do anything.”</p><p> </p><p>Mama slowly removes her hand from his hair and puts it in her lap. She’s looking down when she says, “I’ll find a way to make it up to you.”</p><p> </p><p>He tries not to panic at the idea of her going behind Pa’s back just to get him some semblance of a normal teenage experience. “There’s nothing to make up,” he reassures her. “I’ve got you and Gwen… and the guys, I guess,” he tries to joke. They both know he isn’t the biggest fan of his other cousins. “I don’t need anything else.”</p><p> </p><p>For a moment, it’s clear she wants to say something. Mama takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, looking at him all the while. He can almost see the struggle inside of her, the way she grasps for the words like he used to when he was toddler and Pa scared him. He holds up his hand, pointer, pinky and index fingers extended. <em>I love you.</em></p><p> </p><p>She smiles sadly at him. “I love you, too.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>1998</em> </b>
</p><p> </p><p>It’s his 18th birthday, so the whole camp gets cake. Deserts are a rarity during the group meals, so everyone is packed into the mess hall to wait in line for a slice. Dean’s already finished his — he’s not a huge fan of vanilla sheet cake, but that’s what everyone gets on special occasions — and he’s waiting on Gwen to eat hers. She’s taking her sweet time, sucking icing off her fork and cutting her slice into tiny bites.</p><p> </p><p>“C’mon,” he mutters. Pa is talking to some of the men in the corner, and he’s worried he’ll be dragged into some boring discussion about new training exercises or resource allocation if he doesn’t get out of here quickly. “I thought we were going to the spot.”</p><p> </p><p>“Shut up,” Gwen says. Now she’s scraping the crumbs off her plate. “I didn’t get cake for <em>my</em> birthday, so let me enjoy yours.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s a special birthday. I’m an adult.” Dean sticks his tongue out at her.</p><p> </p><p>She scoffs. “Sure thing.” Her eyes widen. “Ah shit. Christian and Arlene are almost through the line. Okay.” She stands and grabs her plate. “Let’s go.”</p><p> </p><p>They make their way out the back door, Dean teasing her the whole time. “What, don’t want to watch your brother make goo-goo eyes at his new girlfriend? Jealous he’s not gonna die alone like you are?”</p><p> </p><p>“You are too!” She shoves him, but her cheeks are red. Dean almost feels bad. He knows she has a crush on Caleb, a nomad who joined the compound last year after Samuel caught him stealing food from the community garden. But Caleb’s twenty already, and Dean doubts he even knows Gwen, still a lowly teenager, exists.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t mind being alone.”</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t really. It’s not like he could date girls when he was still in school because he could never bring anybody home. And there aren’t any girls Dean’s age in the compound, either (besides Gwen, who doesn’t count). Lee and Asa and a few of the others have kids, but they’re a lot younger. Christian got lucky with Arlene. They met in school, and she loved him enough to leave her family behind and join his — God only knows why. Gwen and Dean have spent a lot of time dissecting that relationship and still haven’t figured out how it works.</p><p> </p><p>Together they make their way to the spot. Dean has to suck in his gut to squeeze through the gap in the tree trunks now, and he knows if he gets more muscle mass he won’t fit at at all anymore. Gwen still manages to make it through easily, but she’s small and spry. They sit next to each other in the dirt, much more cramped than when they were kids, and Gwen pulls a small brown box out of her jacket pocket.</p><p> </p><p>“Happy birthday, loser.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean takes the box and turns it over in his hands. “Gwen, you didn’t need to get me anything.”</p><p> </p><p>She rolls her eyes. “Open it.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean pulls the lid up. Inside, nestled in thin tissue paper, is a gold amulet shaped like the face of man with horns coming out of the top of his head. Dean takes it out of the box and holds it gingerly.</p><p> </p><p>“Where did you find this?” he asks, disbelieving.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, when you told me about that weird dream you had, I convinced Lee to let me stop by the library on our last supply run. I just looked it up and ordered one from some ‘mystical items’ scammer on Ebay. Nobody else was bidding, so I got a good deal.”</p><p> </p><p>“You ordered it online?” Dean’s impressed. He’s never shopped online, wouldn’t know how to. They don’t keep personal computers at the compound. Pa doesn’t trust new technology. “Where… How did you get a credit card? And where did you send it?”</p><p> </p><p>“Not here. Relax. The librarian was super nice. She let me send it there and Lee picked it up for me later. As for the credit card…” She winks. “A girl has her secrets.”</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t believe it.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean unravels the cord so he can hang the amulet around his neck. It looks exactly like the one he dreamed about, the one the blonde woman pressed into his hands. <em>For the new big brother</em>, she’d said. <em>It will protect you like you’ll protect him. </em>He doesn’t know how many times he’s had that dream. He never imagined the amulet actually existed.</p><p> </p><p>“I have a theory,” Gwen announces, leaning back as far as she can in the tight space, pressing her back into a tree trunk. “I think you’re seeing the future.”</p><p> </p><p>He’s still touching the amulet with awe, but Dean manages to roll his eyes at her. “That’s stupid.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, it’s real! So therefore your dream must be real.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, but the lady tells me I’m gonna have a little brother, and I don’t have one,” Dean points out. “And she’s not my mom.”</p><p> </p><p>“Exactly!” Gwen pokes him in the side. “You keep dreaming about this chick, though, so she has to be important. I’m saying <em>maybe</em> that’s your future wife, and you’re dreaming from the point of view of your kid! You’ll pass this down to him! It <em>is</em> supposed to be a protection amulet, after all.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean grimaces. “I don’t think she’s my wife. That just feels… wrong. And people can’t see the future, Gwen.”</p><p> </p><p>“Your dad acts like he can,” Gwen says, then abruptly snaps her mouth shut.</p><p> </p><p>They both know one of the cardinal rules of the compound is to never question Samuel. Dean’s learned the consequences of breaking that unspoken rule the hard way. Even with Gwen, he’s never dared to say what he really thinks.</p><p> </p><p>And what he really thinks is that his dad is not a good man. That he’s a liar, a snake oil salesman trying to convince more and more people he’s got the answers to life because he likes to have power over them.</p><p> </p><p>But he can’t say that aloud. He can barely think it in his own head.</p><p> </p><p>They stare at each other for several seconds. Then Gwen says quietly, “We could leave. We have our GEDs. We could get jobs, maybe try to go to college.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean should shut down this line of conversation right now. He knows how dangerous it is to have dreams outside of Samuel’s plans. He knows he should tell his cousin not to talk like this, hide his own feelings away, never speak of this again.</p><p> </p><p>But it’s his birthday, and he’s eighteen and feeling reckless.</p><p> </p><p>“I could be an auto mechanic,” he says, thinking of all the fancy sports cars in their old high school parking lot, shiny and new and out of his reach. He imagines fixing cars all day long, taking them apart and making them better. He’d work on way cooler cars than those bright red Mustangs or blue Chargers the rich kids drive. “Or maybe even a teacher.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” Gwen nudges his knee gently with her own. “I think I’d want to go back to school, take some art classes. Play more music.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’d be good at it.” He pictures the little town down the mountain, the squat duplexes next to the feed and grain store. “We could share an apartment. I’d do all the cooking.”</p><p> </p><p>Gwen rolls her eyes. “I guess I’d do the dishes then. And we could get a dog!”</p><p> </p><p>“A Rottweiler,” Dean declares. “Something big and intimidating looking, but it’s actually a giant softie.”</p><p> </p><p>“Like you,” she teases, and they laugh quietly.</p><p> </p><p>Silence falls in their little clearing, and Dean knows this is just a game they’re playing, just a wish on a dandelion that will be blown apart in the wind as soon as they step outside. But it’s nice to pretend, just for a moment, that they have options.</p><p> </p><p>It’s nice, but he can’t let it go on any longer. He’s a man now, and a man has to take responsibility, set a good example. So he says, “I could never leave without Mama.”</p><p> </p><p>Gwen rests her cheek on her knee. “I know,” she says. “I can’t leave my family, either. Not even Christian.”</p><p> </p><p>They’re quiet, watching a line of ants work their way up the gnarled tree trunks in search of food. Dean knows he and Gwen probably won’t be able to do this much longer. Their training has been more intense lately, weapons drills and sparring matches from dawn to dusk, and today is an anomaly. Their earlier conversation was an anomaly. It doesn’t mean anything. A dream is a dream, but it’s nothing real, nothing to hold. Nothing like a gun or his mother’s hand.</p><p> </p><p>“Come on,” he says finally, squeezing back through the trunks and reaching a hand behind him to help her out. “Let’s get back to the party. You never know, Caleb might be looking for you.”</p><p> </p><p>She blushes. “Don’t be a dick,” Gwen says, yet she walks ahead of him, a slight spring in her step. Dean shakes his head and follows his cousin back into camp. Back to his real life.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Mama didn’t get him anything this year. She usually knits him something, a new scarf or a cap for next winter, so Dean’s surprised when Pa is the only parent to give him a gift — a new knife with a pearl inlay, perfectly balanced for throwing.</p><p> </p><p>Dean doesn’t say anything to Mama, though; telling himself Gwen’s gift is enough for him. The amulet sits heavy on his breastbone, trapped between his shirt and his skin. He doesn’t know why, but he felt like no one else should see it. Like it’s a secret between his cousin and him.</p><p> </p><p>That night in his bedroom, Dean takes his shirt off and admires the amulet. It’s truly an uncanny replica of the one the blonde woman gives him in his dreams, right down to the little horns. He can’t believe Gwen found it.</p><p> </p><p>He’s still staring at the mirror when Mama comes in, knocking softly before she opens the door a crack.</p><p> </p><p>“Come in,” Dean tells her, rooting through his dresser drawers for a new t-shirt.</p><p> </p><p>“I have something for you,” Mama says. Her voice sounds funny, so Dean turns to face her. Her eyes are draw to the amulet swinging from his neck, and her mouth falls open.</p><p> </p><p>“Dean,” she says, and there’s an urgency in her tone, “where did you get that necklace?”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh.” Dean touches the smooth metal of the amulet with his pointer finger. “It was a gift from Gwen? She uh— She found it online.” He hastens to add, “Don’t tell Pa!”</p><p> </p><p>“Online?” Mama stares at the necklace, face pale. “From… Where did she order it?”</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s starting to get weirded out. “From some dude on Ebay? It’s that new website where people bid on random stuff.”</p><p> </p><p>Mama steps into the room and closes the door behind her, then crosses the rug to him. She grabs the amulet, twisting it in her palm as she inspects it from every angle.</p><p> </p><p>“Uh, Mama?”</p><p> </p><p>She drops it, and it lands on his breastbone with a soft thud. “I’m sorry, it just… It looked familiar.” Mama shakes her head. “It’s not important. I came here to give you your present.” She reaches into her cardigan and pulls out a small sealed envelope, handing it over to Dean.</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks,” he says automatically, pressing his nail under the seal to crack it open. Mama grabs his hand.</p><p> </p><p>“Wait,” she says. “I— Don’t open it yet. I need to say something first.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean furrows his brow. “Are you okay?” he asks, concerned.</p><p> </p><p>Mama gives him a tiny smile. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “Not really,” she admits. “But there’s nothing you can do, Dean. So just listen to me for a second.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re scaring me,” he says, gut twisting. She’s usually so carefully put together, calm and collected. Her hand shakes where it holds his, and he wants to grab it in return, make the quaking stop. “What’s going on?”</p><p> </p><p>“The first time I held you, I knew I would love you more than the moon and stars,” Mama says. Her eyes are shining. Dean doesn’t know how to respond. “And I have. I’ve tried to do my best for you, and I’m afraid I’ve fallen short.”</p><p> </p><p>“Mama—”</p><p> </p><p>“Shush,” she says gently. “Let me finish. There are… certain things I’ve kept from you, Dean. At first it was because I thought you were too young to handle knowing them, and because I was afraid of what would happen if you did.” Dean’s lost, and she’s not exactly drawing him a map. “Now, I’m just afraid. Afraid you’ll leave me most of all.”</p><p> </p><p>“I wouldn’t,” he swears, and he means it with all his heart. He and Gwen might dream their secret dreams, but in the daylight he knows his duty is to his mother. No one else will stand between her and Samuel. “I’m not leaving.”</p><p> </p><p>“You should,” she says, voice cracking. “And I should learn to let you go. That’s what mothers are supposed to do.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean rears back, tearing his hand out from under hers. “Are you trying to kick me out?” he asks, hurt and confused.</p><p> </p><p>“No, baby.” She’s fully crying now, tears running down her cheeks. “I love you. I would keep you here forever, but that would make me just as bad as your father.”</p><p> </p><p>They stare at each other, Dean’s mouth open. Mama might disagree with how Pa runs things around the camp, might defend Dean to him, might even let it slip that she wishes their lives were different — normal. But he’s never heard her blatantly say Pa is <em>bad.</em></p><p> </p><p>“There’s a letter inside,” she says, gesturing to the envelope. Her face screws up, and she takes a deep breath before speaking again. “It will tell you what you need to know. You’re old enough now to decide for yourself what kind of life you want.”</p><p> </p><p><em>Pa would kill me if I ran</em>, Dean thinks, but all he says is, “What if I don’t open it?”</p><p> </p><p>Mama looks into his eyes, her own bright with tears. She takes his hands in hers again, squeezing them the way she did when he was a child and she was trying to teach him sign language. “I hope you will.”</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>There’s a crack in one of the floorboards beneath his bed. Dean stuffs the envelope, unopened, under the wood.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>2002</em> </b>
</p><p> </p><p>“You’ve got to stop moping,” Gwen says. Her tone is gentle, sympathetic. It still grates on Dean.</p><p> </p><p>“She called me a liar and an asshole.” He rests the butt of the shotgun against his shoulder, eyeing his target through the scope. A <em>click </em>and a <em>bang</em>, the blunt force of the recoil, and the rusted can is blown apart. “So sorry if I’m not taking it well.”</p><p> </p><p>He hasn’t told anyone, not even Gwen, that Lisa asked him to marry her. It would sound insane, and it was. After only four months of hooking up, she thought <em>Dean</em> of all people was husband material? <em>Father</em> material? He blows another can away. He shouldn’t have said yes. He should have known Samuel would intervene.</p><p> </p><p>“What did you lie to her about?” Gwen cringes when he answers with another shotgun blast. “I thought you were just sleeping together. What, did she really think you would go to Indiana with her and the kid?”</p><p> </p><p><em>Yes, because I told her I would</em>. “I don’t know,” Dean lies. “Women are crazy.”</p><p> </p><p>Gwen glares at him. “That’s what men say when they do shit they don’t want to admit to.”</p><p> </p><p><em>Bang. Bang. Bang. </em>He hasn’t missed once today. Too bad Samuel isn’t around. Dean grimaces. As if this would impress him. Nothing Dean does is good enough for his father anymore. <em>Bang.</em></p><p> </p><p>“I guess I gave her the wrong impression.” <em>I told her I loved her then walked out without a word because my father told me she was poison, and I was afraid of what he’d do to her if I tried to leave. </em>“Look, Gwen, I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t make you talk about Caleb.”</p><p> </p><p><em>Bang. Bang.</em> Gwen stands, loading her own gun and frowning as she snaps the barrel back into place. “He asked me to marry him.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s next shot goes wide. He spins to face her, and she shoves his gun down before the barrel hits her. “What the fuck, Dean?”</p><p> </p><p>“Really?” Dean demands. “Really? You gave me hell about Lisa for <em>months, </em>and I just had to take it. Had to listen to you say <em>oh, it’s a bad idea, oh, you don’t need a kid, she’s still in love with her ex, </em>blah, blah, blah. Yet I don’t say shit about you mooning over Caleb for <em>years, </em>and you still won’t give it a rest. And now you’re gonna go and marry the guy who acts like you don’t exist half the time?”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s not fair!” Gwen points her free hand at his face. “And you know it! It’s different; he’s one of us!”</p><p> </p><p>“One of us,” Dean spits, furious. “Bullshit! He’s only picking you because you’re his only option!”</p><p> </p><p>Dean wishes he could shove the words back into his mouth the moment he says them. Gwen’s face falls, and she stares at him like she’s never seen him before. Like he’s someone she doesn’t even know.</p><p> </p><p>She stares at him with hate in her eyes. Like he’s Samuel.</p><p> </p><p>“Better for me to be with someone who might not love me but at least understands the life than for you to fall in love with some tramp from a bar who’ll walk out on you the first chance she gets.” Gwen throws her leftover ammunition at him. The bullets hit him in the chest and fall at his feet. “Fuck you, Dean.”</p><p> </p><p>As she storms off, Dean sinks to the ground, head in his hands. He stays there until his knees ache, then he drops onto his ass, staring across the clearing at the obliterated targets scattered around him.</p><p> </p><p>He still has his cellphone. Samuel doesn’t know about it. He could pick it up, call Lisa, tell her everything. Tell her the truth. <em>Hey sweetheart, I didn’t want to ditch you and Ben but I grew up in a cult and I don’t know how to leave and my only friend hates me. Come pick me up?</em> He scoffs to himself.</p><p> </p><p>Dean forces himself to stand. He picks up the bullets Gwen threw at him and loads them into his shotgun. He aims and he fires, and he keeps his mind blank.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry,” he tells Gwen later. “I was just jealous I guess. I want you to be happy.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s not a total lie, and she’ll forgive him after a cooling off period. They’re tied together, have been since childhood. Some strings you can’t cut, and Dean knows this all too well.</p><p> </p><p>But when he goes to Caleb, Dean doesn’t apologize.</p><p> </p><p>“So you’re straight now?” he asks, arms crossed over his chest.</p><p> </p><p>Caleb’s eyes dart nervously around the clearing, but there’s a reason Dean waited until they were alone to do this. He lets the older man fidget in silence, waiting him out like he’s a hunter watching a deer step into his sight.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re one to talk,” Caleb whispers finally, defensive and on-edge.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, unlike you, I happen to like women, too.” Dean can’t believe he made out with this guy, drunk off his ass on his 21st birthday, just before he met Lisa and everything changed. He’s known since high school he was into men, but he never acted on it until this year. Samuel hasn’t explicitly said he <em>hates</em> queer people, but Dean can read between the lines, can see the emphasis on pairing up and breeding that Samuel pushes on the group. He just wishes he’d risked his one gay hook-up on a guy with some semblance of a spine. “You can’t do this to her, man. She really loves you. It’s not fair to her.”</p><p> </p><p>“You sure you’re not just jealous?”<br/><br/><br/>Dean scoffs. “Please. This is about more than us having some fun once. Gwen is my best friend, and you’re lying to her. She’ll find out, and it will hurt her.” He takes a deep breath, resisting the urge to punch Caleb in the face. “I’m asking you to put her first. Break up with her now, before it gets worse.”</p><p> </p><p>Caleb stares at Dean. “Your dad knows.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s a like a punch straight to the gut. “What the hell do you mean?” Dean snaps, but he knows exactly what Caleb means.</p><p> </p><p>“He knows I’m gay,” Caleb says, “and he— He practically said that he’d seen us leave the mess together that night, man.” Caleb’s forehead is covered in a fine sheen of sweat, and Dean’s sure he’s sweating enough to match it. “He said, ‘I know you and Dean have been <em>close</em>, but you don’t need to worry about him should you propose to Gwen.’ I— I didn’t know how to respond to that, Dean. I was fucking panicking! What else could he have meant?”</p><p> </p><p>“That he knew I’d be jealous of two friends getting married, I don’t know!” Dean throws his hands up in the air. His stomach is revolting on him. “Fuck. <em>Fuck</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“I wasn’t trying to lead her on.” Caleb sounds as miserable as he looks. “But she’s always hanging around, and you know she’s had a crush on me since you guys were still teenagers. I guess Samuel decided that was enough of a reason to force us together.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s one thing for Samuel to ruin Dean’s life, for him to snatch away any bit of happiness Dean’s managed to scrounge up and throw it away like garbage. It’s one thing for Dean to wake up every day knowing he’ll never get to make his own choices, never get to leave this place, never fall in love or find his calling or be <em>free</em> because his freedom could mean punishment for the people he loves. It’s one thing for Samuel to control his life.</p><p> </p><p>It’s another thing for that control to wreck Gwen’s.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t,” Dean says, and he’s so frustrated his eyes start to burn, but he wills himself not to cry. “Don’t do it; don’t marry her. We’ll avoid each other, he’ll forget, and Gwen won’t be stuck in a loveless sham of a marriage.”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t be naive, Dean.” Caleb laughs bitterly. “You just spent the last four months falling in love with a woman, and he’s still not happy. It doesn’t matter what we do. Our fate was sealed the moment he saw us leave together. Whatever the fuck his plans are for you, he’s starting to pull all the strings now. You get no one, and I get Gwen.”</p><p> </p><p>It dawns on Dean that Caleb is right, in more ways than one. <em>He’s isolating me</em>, he thinks, and bitterness swells in his throat, threatening to choke him. <em>I do every damn thing he asks, and this is the thanks I get.</em></p><p> </p><p>There’s only one option open to them, and Dean knows they can’t take it: he could tell Caleb to run, but Samuel would find him. His father doesn’t let anyone out of his web.</p><p> </p><p>“Forget it then,” he snarls at Caleb, pointing his finger in the other man’s face. “But know this: you better be prepared to keep up this lie for the rest of your fucking life, or it won’t be Samuel who’ll make you regret ever stealing from us. It will be <em>me.</em>”</p><p> </p><p>With that Dean turns and stalks back into camp, filled with a fury he can’t afford to unleash.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>2006</em> </b>
</p><p> </p><p>Dean is supposed to be supervising the kids’ target practice when <em>it</em> happens.</p><p> </p><p>He’s not shirking his duties or anything, but the twins have a bad habit of wasting ammo in their rush to one-up one another, and they run out of bullets twenty minutes into what was supposed to be a hour of practice. Dean tells them to stay put while he goes back to camp for a few more boxes, rolling his eyes as Alicia jumps Max the moment he turns his back, Chrissy shouting to egg them on.</p><p> </p><p>Dean knows if anyone spots him he’ll get reamed out for letting the kids fuck around, so he sticks to the back end of the buildings as he makes his way toward the armory. Gwen is on guard duty today so he’s lucked out there. He finds her sitting in the doorway, knitting a sweater that’s just ugly enough to be meant for Christian.</p><p> </p><p>“What do you want?” she asks without looking up, hands moving rapidly as she works the thread into some zigzag pattern.</p><p> </p><p>“Alicia and Max went at it again. They’ll both need another box.”</p><p> </p><p>Gwen stares up at him through her bangs, lips pursed judgmentally. “I thought you were supposed to be supervising them.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, well.” Dean leans against the doorframe. “Tell me mine isn’t gonna look like that.”</p><p> </p><p>She cracks a small smile. “If I have to give you extra ammo every time I’m on armory duty, it’s gonna be even uglier. I’m thinking of using that brown yarn your ma threw out last winter…”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re not putting me in that shit stain color,” Dean protests, scuffing the toe of her boot with his. “C’mon, you know you’re bored. Help me out a little. I’m on kitchen duty tomorrow; I’ll save an extra brownie for you.”</p><p> </p><p>Gwen shifts the lump of yarn to one side, standing and cracking her spine before sweeping her dark brown hair behind her ear. Dean ignores the flash of light reflecting off her simple diamond ring the way he always does. “Two brownies,” she tells him, motioning for Dean to follow her inside. “One for each box I’m handing out. What exactly am I supposed to put on the inventory for this? ‘Ammo wasted due to Dean’s recklessness?’”</p><p> </p><p>He knocks into her shoulder with his, and she pushes back. </p><p> </p><p>Just as he’s getting ready to shove Gwen again, a disheveled Richie bursts through the door. Richie is, to put it nicely, a complete idiot. Dean’s not sure where Samuel picked him up, or even what use his father has for a man who walks around talking like an Italian gangster from the ‘30s and wearing velvet tracksuits from the early 2000s. Dean rarely sees Richie around — he’s not really a member of the compound, just a weapons supplier, and not even one of the good ones.</p><p> </p><p>“Rich,” Gwen says, pushing past Dean. “I wasn’t expecting you today—”</p><p> </p><p>“Gwen, Dean.” His beady brown eyes dart between the cousins, and Richie puts his hands on Gwen’s shoulders. She rolls them, shrugging him off. “You gotta help me, guys, I really fucked up. I mean, really fucked up…” His head jerks back, looking over his shoulder at the still open door. “Dean-o, you gotta talk to your old man, tell him it was an accident. I didn’t mean nothing by it, nothing came of it! No harm, no foul, right?!”</p><p> </p><p>Richie’s eyes are crazed, wild and unfocused, and Dean grabs him by the arm to push him away from Gwen as much as to ground him.</p><p> </p><p>“What the fuck are you talking about, man?”</p><p> </p><p>Again Richie’s head jerks back as he looks to the door. “Look, I didn’t mean to get caught. The cops don’t know, though, alright? I told them it was all for me; I don’t want to lose good business…”</p><p> </p><p>“RICHIE!” Dean recognizes his father’s bellow, flinching at it in a primal instinct he’s never been able to quite cover up. Richie’s eyes widen impossibly further. “Get your ass out here!”</p><p> </p><p>Richie grabs onto to Dean’s elbow so that they’re holding each other’s arms in an awkward grasp.</p><p> </p><p>“I just wanted to apologize,” he says, and a bit of spittle falls from his mouth and onto to Dean’s hand. Dean tries to jerk it away, but Richie’s not letting go of him. “Please, Dean, you gotta tell him I have it all handled! It won’t happen again!”</p><p> </p><p>“Dean,” Gwen says from behind him, voice strained, “I think you should take the ammo and go.”</p><p> </p><p>“No!” Richie gasps as Dean yanks his arm back, his too-long fingernails leaving scratch marks just above Dean’s elbow as they drag down the soft skin there. “You have to help me!”</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s already backing up, headed for the rear door as Richie stumbles after him. “He’s gonna kill me, Dean!”</p><p> </p><p>Gwen shoves Richie back with a firm hand to the chest, her voice cold as she says, “You need to get out of here. Whatever you did, the consequences are yours to face.” Dean can’t think of a time when he’s seen her face look so hard, so immovable. Richie almost drops to his knees, but Gwen grabs him by the collar of his velvet track jacket and yanks him up, pushing him back toward the front door.</p><p> </p><p>“RICHIE!” Samuel screams, and Gwen turns to Dean and says, “You’re not supposed to be here; get back to the kids!”</p><p> </p><p>Dean takes one last look at Richie’s desperate, wide eyes, and he turns and bolts through the back door to the armory, running on heavy feet to the edge of the tree line. He ducks into the brush just as Samuel bursts into view around the corner of the bunk next to the armory, face red with rage. Dean’s heart crawls into his throat at the sight of his father, veins popping in his forehead as he yells for Richie again. Dean ducks back behind a copseof trees, hidden from sight by their intertwining branches. But he can still hear everything.</p><p> </p><p>Samuel’s rage is something Dean’s intimately familiar with. He’s felt his father’s fury in bruises shaped like fingers and fists left in all the places on his body where others can’t see, hidden beneath his sweatshirts and jeans. He knows what Samuel looks and sounds like when he’s about to snap, can almost feel the change in the air as the older man bellows, “You almost brought them right to us! YOU IDIOT!”</p><p> </p><p>He’s been Richie before, a dozen times over, cowering as Samuel’s knuckles slam into his stomach. Dean’s mind blanks as he watches his father pummel the other man, the same way it blanks when Samuel turns on him in the middle of the night or in the middle of the woods when no one is watching. Later, he won’t be proud of what he does next. Later he’ll wish he’d been brave, wish he’d stood up and spoke out.</p><p> </p><p>But Dean freezes instead. Then, broken out of his shocked silence by the sound of Gwen shouting, he runs away.</p><p> </p><p>He flees like a spooked animal into the woods, bolting through the trees and leaping over rocks and bushes, running a path so familiar he could traverse it in the dead of night. Dean runs, stomach sick and feeling cowardly, and he doesn’t stop until he reaches the copse where he and Gwen used to hide.</p><p> </p><p>He’s far outgrown it now, but Dean still manages to shove his adult-sized body through the child-sized hole in the intertwined trunks, scraping the skin off his shoulder in the process. He barely feels it. Dean crawls into his sanctuary and presses his back against the trees in the far corner, eyes on the opening. He’s shaking so violently the branches above him are rattling. Dean forces himself to take a slow, deep breath and let it out. Then another, and another, and another.</p><p> </p><p>Dean does this until Gwen shows up, minutes or hours later. He knows it’s her. He would know her footsteps anywhere, and no one else would find him here. She fits through the opening with slightly more ease than him, and when she crawls over to him and lays her head on his shoulder she doesn’t say a word.</p><p> </p><p>Everything he wants to say sticks in his throat. He manages to ask, “The kids?”</p><p> </p><p>Gwen doesn’t lift her head as she says, “I went to tell them practice was over for the day.” There’s a heavy pause. “Samuel was looking for you. After. I told him you were hunting. He seemed to buy it.”</p><p> </p><p>He hadn’t realized his hands were still shaking until she grabs one and holds it. “Okay… Okay. Thanks.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean wants to ask what happened to Richie, but he’s afraid to find out. He’s also afraid of Gwen’s judgement. She stayed behind and tried to protect Richie, and he ran like a frightened child into the woods. Shame sinks like lead in his stomach.</p><p> </p><p>Gwen must know he can’t ask, so she answers for him. “Samuel told Roy and Walt to escort him out of camp. He told me to mind my own damn business. I—” There’s a bite of frustration in her voice. “I didn’t know what to do. I mean, Richie’s an idiot but—”</p><p> </p><p><em>But who knows what Samuel is capable of?</em> She doesn’t need to say it. They’re both thinking it.</p><p> </p><p>They’re silent for a long time, listening as the forest falls asleep around them. The birds stop calling and the crickets start before Gwen speaks again, softly.</p><p> </p><p>“What has he done to you?”</p><p> </p><p>Dean wants to rip his hand out of hers, but she’s griping it so tight. “I’m an idiot,” Gwen says. “I didn’t realize, not until I saw your face today. We’re all scared of him, Dean. I know this is more than that for you. Please, tell me and I can—”</p><p> </p><p>“You can’t do anything,” he says, voice flat. He’s so wrung out he can’t even manage the horror he should feel at her promise of protection. Dean would never allow anyone to stand between him and his father, but right now he can’t imagine anyone even bothering to try. Samuel rules all. “So forget it.”</p><p> </p><p>She’s quiet for a moment. Her hand squeezes his. “We could run. I mean it. You, me, Caleb. Your ma. We could go to the police.”</p><p> </p><p>“Like they would help. The people down the mountain think we’re no better than animals.” It’s something Samuel would say, but Dean’s seen enough obvious glares and heard enough whispered snide remarks to know that the disdain the townspeople have for “mountain folk” is one thing his father hasn’t lied about. “He’d just find us again. Send Walt and Roy or Tara after us, drag us back here and… You know what happened to Lee.”</p><p> </p><p>He hears her swallow hard. Lee Chambers wanted to leave the compound, take his daughter and make a run for a better life. Samuel sent the dogs after him. They chased him up a tree and Lee was back the next day, eyes wide and sorry. He has hasn’t been the same since. His face, so friendly and open before, is now always carefully blank. Samuel gave the kid to Tara, and Lee didn’t even fight him on it.</p><p> </p><p>“That doesn’t have to happen to us,” Gwen says, and Dean wonders if she’s imagining the scenario he’s pictured again and again — the three of them, Mama, Gwen, and Dean, safe in a home somewhere, happy and full and laughing, and Samuel bursting through the door to ruin it all, a shotgun in his hands.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t,” he warns her. “It’s no use, Gwen.”</p><p> </p><p>“Does your ma know?”</p><p> </p><p>Dean clenches his jaw. “No. And you’re not going to tell her.”</p><p> </p><p>Gwen turns her face into his shoulder. He feels something wet through his t-shirt and belatedly realizes she’s crying.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m so sorry,” Gwen whispers. “I didn’t— I’ll think of something. We’ll think of something.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean doesn’t tell her it’s been two decades and he’s yet to come up with an escape plan. He’s a grown man who’s terrified of his old, wizened father and his gang of soulless cronies. There’s no hope for him.</p><p> </p><p>But Dean knows Gwen needs to hope for a better life for all of them. And he knows how paralyzing the loss of that hope can be. So he lets her dream, like they’re kids again and pretending they’ll go to college. Dean lets Gwen dream, and he sinks deeper into nothingness.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>2008</em> </b>
</p><p> </p><p>Dean never knows what side of Samuel he’s going to get when his father asks to speak with him alone.</p><p> </p><p>Mama is in the next room reading, and Dean doesn’t think Samuel would hit him where she could hear it, but his shoulders are still tense as he follows his father into his office. Samuel doesn’t let anyone else in the room much, and Dean tries not to stare too hard at the maps on the walls or the notepads on the desk. Samuel’s plans are beyond his understanding, or so he’s always been told.</p><p> </p><p>“Sit.” Samuel points to the rickety wooden chair in front of his old oak desk. It’s not an office chair, just something missing from someone’s dining set. Dean sits on the edge of the seat, hands tense in his lap. Samuel stays standing. Looming.</p><p> </p><p>“You’ve done surprisingly well in your drills this week.” Dean stiffens. It’s too soon to tell if this is just a backhanded compliment or the prelude to an argument. “You bested Christian rather impressively this afternoon.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean doesn’t say it was easy to beat his cousin — after all, Christian’s left ankle is still weak from when he broke it four years ago. It never set correctly because Samuel wouldn’t let him go to the hospital, and now Christian always favors his right side when fighting. So Dean always targets his left.</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you, sir.”</p><p> </p><p>One corner of Samuel’s lips ticks up in what’s almost a smile. “Ruthless strategy, to go after your opponent’s weak side.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s heart rate jumps. Of course Samuel noticed. “I thought it was the smart thing to do.”</p><p> </p><p>“It was.” He blinks, looking up at his father. Samuel <em>is</em> smiling. Actually smiling, teeth and all. “I didn’t think you had it in you, to be honest. I was happy to be proven wrong, Dean.”</p><p> </p><p>Samuel’s never been happy to be wrong before, but Dean doesn’t dare say that. Instead he lowers his eyes and says, “Thank you, sir,” again.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not just the fight with Christian that shows me you’ve grown, son.” Samuel never calls him son, and it makes Dean’s spine tingle in that way it does when he senses a predator in the woods, like some animal instinct telling him <em>danger</em>. “Your sharpshooting is second to no one but Gwendolyn these days, and your skills with a knife are second to none. And speaking of Gwen, I must say I’m happy to see you two are finally growing apart.” Dean chest’s feels heavy. He doesn’t speak. “I was most… <em>displeased </em>when Caleb ran out on her, but it was to be expected from that vagrant.”</p><p> </p><p><em>He knows</em>, Dean thinks. Blood rushes in his ears. <em>He knows, and I’m dead.</em></p><p> </p><p>But Samuel says, “I know she’s upset about the dissolution of her marriage. Anyone would be. But it might be a good thing that she’s withdrawn from you in her grief. Your dependence on each other was bordering on childish. It’s heartening for me to watch you outgrow it at last.”</p><p> </p><p><em>She found out her husband was gay and he’d kissed me and I never told her</em>. Dean’s hands clench into fists. He doesn’t speak. Samuel has probably already guessed as much, if Caleb was right and he knew about them all along.</p><p> </p><p>Samuel might have<em> planned </em>this all along. The one person who knows Dean better than anyone, who therefore knows what Samuel’s done behind closed doors, is now not speaking to him. Not protecting him.</p><p> </p><p>It’s evil. It’s something his father would orchestrate to make him miserable. To make him reliant and pliant.</p><p> </p><p>“In honor of your recent growth, I thought we could have a drink.” Samuel pulls open a drawer and reaches inside, coming out with two short glasses he sets on the desk in front of Dean. Dean watches in curious fascination as his father also takes out a bottle of Johnnie Walker, label torn at the edges. Liquor is forbidden in the compound. Samuel winks. “What your mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean chooses not to respond to that. He silently watches Samuel fill both glasses with two fingers of scotch, taking the one Samuel slides over to him without comment. He sips from it slowly, eyes on his father over the rim of the glass. Samuel downs his in one go.</p><p> </p><p>He puts his own glass down, holding it carefully in his lap. “Is there— Is there something you wanted to talk to me about, sir?”</p><p> </p><p>Samuel scoffs. “Can’t a man just share a drink with his son?”</p><p> </p><p><em>No, </em>Dean thinks. <em>Not if that man is you. </em>“Of course. I just—” He shuts his mouth.</p><p> </p><p>Samuel settles his body more heavily on the edge of the desk, and the wood groans under his weight. If it were just Dean and Samuel, he thinks he could take him. His father is old, getting slower and heavier with every passing season. He’s a better shot than Dean, knows the woods better than Dean, but with enough of a head start Dean could be gone like an arrow loosed in the night. But it’s not just Dean and Samuel. It’s Dean and Gwen and Mama and the kids versus all those loyal followers who would beat a man to death on their leader’s command.</p><p> </p><p>“I did have something I wanted to tell you, as a matter of fact,” Samuel says, unaware of Dean’s racing thoughts. “I think it’s time we discussed your future role in our family.”</p><p> </p><p>“My role, sir?” Dean’s mouth is dry despite the scotch.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. After all, someone will need to help me lead these people into the new world order. I’m not getting any younger, and when the apocalypse comes I might be gone.”</p><p> </p><p><em>I hope you are,</em> Dean thinks with a viciousness that churns his gut. He keeps his face carefully blank.</p><p> </p><p>“I want you to be that leader, Dean.” Samuel’s lips curl in a benevolent smile that makes Dean sick to his stomach. “I’ve been holding off on having this discussion with you because I wasn’t sure you’d ever mature into the man I knew you could be. My solider. And I’ve been burned before.” Samuel takes another gulp of his scotch. Dean’s hands are sweating around his glass. “You aren’t the only child your mother and I have had, you know.”</p><p> </p><p>For a moment, Dean’s sure he misunderstood. “What?” he asks, like an idiot, interrupting Samuel’s tale. His father’s eyes flash and he holds up a palm. Dean tries not to flinch away.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m explaining.” His voice is less warm than before. “Let me speak.” Dean can only nod. “She was born long before you, Dean. My little girl. Mary.” He’s never seen his father look like this before — lost in thought, mind somewhere else. “Gorgeous child. She was the light of my life, but then — then she grew up. She was a lot like you, you know — fiery little thing. Stubborn, too. Bullheaded, I might even say. She wasn’t cut out for the life we lead.”</p><p> </p><p>Samuel raises his eyebrows pointedly, and Dean can’t help but ask, “What happened to her?” There’s an edge to the question, a tone he tries not to take with his father because it could earn him a backhand or a sucker punch, but Dean’s never been a fast learner. “Why wouldn’t you tell me I had a sister? Why wouldn’t <em>Ma </em>tell me?”</p><p> </p><p>His father places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. Tight. “We don’ t speak of what we’ve lost, Dean. There’s no point in dwelling in the past.”</p><p> </p><p><em>Lost. </em>Dean stares at his father’s blue eyes, and he thinks of his dreams. The woman with long blonde hair and a kind smile, blue eyes bright as she holds his small hands. The amulet hanging beneath his shirt feels heavy against his chest. <em>Where did you get that? </em>Ma had asked, like she’d seen it before.</p><p> </p><p>He knew her. He didn’t make her up. She’s not a figment of his imagination, not a lost hope for a future he’ll never have. She was real and she held his hands and she <em>loved</em> him. Dean knows this beyond the shadow of a doubt.</p><p> </p><p>He feels tears pricking at the back of his eyes as he says, “When did she die? How?”</p><p> </p><p>His father leans down, close to his face. “It doesn’t matter, Dean. What matters is she is lost to us all now.” He hears the meaning behind all the words Samuel doesn’t say, feels the implication in the way his father holds both of his shoulders now, tightening his grip.</p><p> </p><p>Dean stares down Samuel, and it’s like staring down death. “Did you do it?”</p><p> </p><p>Samuel sneers at him, so close Dean can see all the little pockmarks in the skin across the bridge of his nose, the crack in his front tooth. “Don’t ask stupid questions, boy.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s bracing for a blow, but then Samuel leans back. “Maybe you’re not ready after all.” He waves a hand. “Get out of here. Now.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s out of the office in two steps, closing the door behind and running past a bewildered Mama in the living room, up the stairs and into the darkness of his bedroom. He shuts his own door, much softer, and drops to his knees. Reaching under his bed, Dean finds the loose floorboard and pulls, wrenching it out of place. A splinter stabs at his thumb, but he ignores it.</p><p> </p><p>The letter is still there.</p><p> </p><p>He holds it, feeling the weight of it. Not long, just a single page. Enough space to write about a long lost sibling. Enough space to apologize for a lifetime of lies.</p><p> </p><p>Dean stares at the yellowed envelope. Mama wanted him to know, but she didn’t tell him face to face. Samuel did. Samuel wanted to watch Dean’s face, watch the hopelessness sink in. <em>If he could kill her, he could kill you.</em> Does Mama know that? Or does she think Mary ran away? Would she stay with Samuel if she knew?</p><p> </p><p>Does Dean want to know if his only loving parent is complicit in the murder of his sister?</p><p> </p><p>He shoves the envelope, unopened, back beneath the floorboard.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Dean finds Gwen the next day, pulling her into the woods just as she’s leaving the bathhouse early in the morning.</p><p> </p><p>“What the fuck,” she sputters, wrenching her arm back. She’s still in her robe, hair dripping and wild around her shoulders, flip-flops slapping against her wet feet. “Dean—”</p><p> </p><p>“I know you’re mad at me about Caleb,” he says before she can stop him. “But we have to talk. I—” He glances around nervously. “At our spot. Gwen, please. It’s urgent.”</p><p> </p><p>She narrows her eyes at him. “Now you want to talk? I’ve been leaving notes for you for fucking weeks—” Gwen trails off, and they both stare at each other.</p><p> </p><p>“Samuel,” they say, and Gwen groans.</p><p> </p><p>“I thought you were still pissed about Caleb.”</p><p> </p><p>“I <em>am</em>, but I’m going to abandon you over his lying ass,” Gwen snarls. “Your dad… He must know about the rock.” They’ve left notes for each other under a massive rock near the mess hall for years. “The spot might not be safe either.” She grabs his hand. “Come with me.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean follows, safe and certain with one of the only people in the compound he knows will never betray him. Even though it’s cold out, Gwen doesn’t shiver or complain as she leads him deeper into the woods, past their spot and down an embankment into a part of the valley Dean’s never been to before. Gwen moves around the ruts and downed trees with the grace of someone who’s been here before, stopping only when they reach a dried river bed.</p><p> </p><p>There are two beaten up lawn chairs folded and tucked away behind a tree hanging over the bank, and Gwen pulls them out and sets them up in the dirt.</p><p> </p><p>“What is this place?” Dean asks, eyeing the rusted chair dubiously. “Are you gonna give me tetanus?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, sit down.” He sits, careful not to touch the chair too much with his bare skin. “This was Caleb’s hideaway.” Gwen looks down at her hands. “We used to sneak out here to talk, away from the rest of the bunkhouse.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean doesn’t know what to say to that. He knows Gwen loved her husband and still does, even if Caleb could never love her back the way she wanted.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry,” he says, not for the first time. “I wish I’d told you sooner.”</p><p> </p><p>“There’s something I need to tell you, too,” Gwen says, brushing past his apology. She takes a deep breath, still not looking at Dean. “Before Caleb left, we… I think he wanted to say goodbye properly, so we came out here alone one night and we had sex. For the first time in ages, he actually got off. So… I’m pregnant.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s odd to feel two opposing emotions at once — simultaneous elation and dread. Dean stares at his cousin, his best friend, and he thinks <em>I’m going to be an uncle</em> and <em>this is the worst timing in the world.</em></p><p> </p><p>“I can’t raise my baby here,” Gwen says, just as Dean says, “We have to leave.”</p><p> </p><p>Gwen smiles at him, but her eyes are sad. “Glad you’re finally with me on that. I thought you would never run, even after all the hell he’s put you through.”</p><p> </p><p>“No, you don’t get it,” Dean insists, leaning forward and taking her hands between his. “I can’t leave just for me, but— Samuel told me something yesterday. Something awful. I had a sister, Gwen.” Her eyes widen. “And I think he killed her. He was threatening me, but he also kept talking about you and how glad he was that we’re growing apart. No one I care about is safe here anymore.”</p><p> </p><p>Gwen takes this in, griping Dean’s hand tightly. “Do you think Samuel had something to do with Caleb disappearing? Did he know that you—” She trails off.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know,” Dean admits. “But we can’t focus on that now. We’ve got to come up with a plan.” He looks into her eyes. “We’re not letting him get his hands on your kid, okay?”</p><p> </p><p>His cousin stares back at him, trusting. She’d follow him anywhere, the same way he’d follow her. Now that he knows what he knows, now that she’s having a child, they’re going to have to put their trust in each other to the ultimate test.</p><p> </p><p>They’re going to have to outsmart Samuel someway, somehow. Dean doesn’t know if it’s possible. But if he believes in anything, he believes in Gwen.</p><p> </p><p>“We’re getting out of here,” he promises her.</p><p> </p><p>And for once, he means it.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>Six Months Later…</em> </b>
</p><p> </p><p>There had to have been a mole.</p><p> </p><p>Dean lies on the dirt floor and stares at the basement ceiling, shivering and starving and so, so thirsty, and he runs through the names of everyone in their little group in his head.</p><p> </p><p><em>Gwen</em>. She would never do this to him. He wonders where she is, if Samuel has her locked up somewhere too. <em>Annie. Tracy. Olivia. Max and Alicia. Johnny. Mark. Arlene. Lee. </em>They all seemed to want out so bad. They all had their reasons to run, and he’d trusted them all. His eyelids fall closed, heavy. <em>Christian.</em> Would his own cousin turn on him like this?</p><p> </p><p>Maybe.</p><p> </p><p><em>Mama. </em>He wonders if she’s even alive. He’d kept her in the dark, trying to keep her safe the way he’s been trying from his earliest memories. Pointless. Samuel knows how much Dean loves her. She’s definitely locked up now, innocent by all rights but guilty by association.</p><p> </p><p>Dean wonders if she would have even gone with them if he’d had the chance to reveal the plan last minute like he wanted. Maybe she’s more loyal to Samuel than she seems. Maybe he endangered her life, all their lives, for nothing.</p><p> </p><p>He should have killed Samuel when he had the chance. Should have taken one of the shotguns he’d hidden in the woods, walked into the old man’s bedroom at night, and fired it straight into his skull. He doesn’t know why Samuel hasn’t killed him yet. He’s been waiting for it the past three days, ever since Samuel’s goons ambushed him and threw him down into the root cellar. Ever since his father looked down at him and said, “Dean, I <em>know.</em>”</p><p> </p><p>Months of planning, of following orders and acting the part of the perfect son during the day, of meeting in secret in the woods and at the Roadhouse in the middle of the night, of stockpiling supplies and charting out a route into town. He’d almost ruined it a couple of times — Walt saw him buying extra ammo, then there was that park ranger he spooked in the woods… But Dean thought they were soon to be home free.</p><p> </p><p>Someone told. Someone he trusted sentenced him to death, because that’s what he’s waiting for down here. No food, no water. He’s so much weaker already than he was just three days ago. It’s getting colder and colder every night, and Dean knows he won’t last much longer in these conditions.</p><p> </p><p>He thought rescue would have come by now. Maybe Samuel told the camp he ran away without them. The thought of Mama and Gwen and the kids thinking he abandoned them hurts more than the hunger pangs.</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s drifting into a troubled sleep when the cellar door creaks. He opens one eye, watching as the door’s jerked open to reveal a sliver of the night sky. It’s a full moon night, but it still takes a moment for his eyes to adjust. They’re all there — Walt, Roy, Tara, Creedy, Kubrick. There are more behind them, faces Dean can’t make out. Standing front and center is Samuel.</p><p> </p><p>“Dean,” he says. “Get up.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean can only blink at him from the floor.</p><p> </p><p>“Get up,” Samuel says again, and Dean only notices he has a shotgun in his hands when he waves it around. “Now.”</p><p> </p><p>His legs wobble when he pushes himself up, knees threatening to give out. Dean hears one of the men, maybe Creedy or Kubrick, snicker. Fuck them. If he’s going to die, it will be on his feet. He looks up, unsteady but defiant, watching his father from the bottom of the staircase.</p><p> </p><p>Samuel’s face is blank when he says, “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”</p><p><br/>“Yeah,” Dean snarls. “Fuck you.”</p><p><br/>Samuel’s mouth twitches into a frown. “It’s about time you learned your place.”</p><p> </p><p>”I know my place,” Dean says, leaning against the wall to support his weight. “It’s between you and the rest of them.”</p><p> </p><p>Samuel shakes his head. “It’s a little late for that now,” he says. “They’re staying with me. And <em>you—</em>” He practically spits the word. “If you want your freedom so bad, I hope you’re prepared to run for it.” Then he and the crowd move aside.</p><p> </p><p>Dean stares at them, up the cellar stairs and out over the now open path to the woods and to freedom. This is a trick. He doesn’t move.</p><p> </p><p>Samuel cocks his gun and levels it at Dean’s chest.</p><p> </p><p>“This is your only chance,” he says, and suddenly Dean is hit with the realization that this might be how his sister died. “Run.”</p><p> </p><p>If his choice is die by bullet where he stands or take his chances with the dogs and the woods, he’ll take the woods. Dean knows, even as he half stumbles up the stairs and pushes his way past the crowd, that he’ll never make it.</p><p> </p><p>They’d never make this fair.</p><p> </p><p>Dean still runs.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Part V: Wheel of Fortune</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He can’t speak when Eileen comes back the next day. She says, “Hello,” and Dean’s throat closes up. Eileen sighs, but she signs a question. <em>Are you alright?</em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em>No.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>He lets the tech she’s brought with her take his DNA sample; a quick swab of the inside of his cheek and they’re gone. Cas sits right next to him on the couch, practically vibrating with tension, and Dean would joke about personal space if he found any of this funny at all.</p><p> </p><p>But he needs Cas, so he doesn’t say anything.</p><p> </p><p>Reidy’s there, too, talking over the tech and Eileen and Cas and ignoring Dean’s silence. The Winchester family hired a PI to look into their case years ago, and apparently the man, Victor Henriksen, is an old buddy of Reidy’s. He’s already on his way, prepared to assist with the case as soon as Dean’s DNA results are back.</p><p> </p><p>In twenty-four hours, his whole life has shifted. In another twenty-four hours it will shift again.</p><p> </p><p>The agents are so wrapped up in the case they don’t even seem to notice him. But Cas does. Cas is there for Dean, and Dean alone, his arm pressed against Dean’s like a pillar. He doesn’t care if Dean is a Campbell or a Smith or a Winchester, and Dean wishes Cas were the only one in the room. Maybe then he could speak again.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe then he could breathe.</p><p> </p><p>“You’ll like Henriksen,” Reidy is saying. “Sharp man. Should’ve stuck with the Bureau, but there’s money to made in the private sector.” Dean stiffens, and Cas snaps, “Do you all need anything else from Dean, or can we expect a call from you tomorrow as promised?”</p><p> </p><p>Eileen hides a smile behind her palm as Reidy sputters. Dean knew he liked her more for a reason.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, I still need to finish Mr. Winchester’s official statement, and there’s a lot of evidence we should go over—”</p><p> </p><p>“It can wait.” Eileen raises an eyebrow at Reidy’s open-mouthed indignation. “It can, Calvin. This is a traumatic experience. You know a good DA could get any statement Dean makes under duress thrown out in court. We can come back tomorrow with Henriksen, get Dean prepped to speak with the Winchesters. But today we can let him process this on his own.”</p><p> </p><p>“He processed it last night!”</p><p> </p><p>Cas stands so abruptly Dean almost falls over into the spot on the couch he’s vacated. “Get out of my house,” he says, voice so low it makes the hair on the back of Dean’s neck stand up.</p><p> </p><p>“Now, you can’t—” Reidy starts to protest, and Cas interrupts, “I can. You’re here under my invitation, and I’ll gladly invite you back in tomorrow. But if you want to bother Dean more today, come back with a fucking warrant.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s been attracted to Cas the entire time they’ve known each other. He’s a handsome man and Dean has eyes. But it’s this moment, with Cas standing in front of him, blue eyes blazing with righteous anger, that Dean thinks <em>I love you.</em></p><p> </p><p><em>I love you</em>, and he can’t hear anything else Reidy or Eileen says. Cas’s neck is red and his shoulders are tense and his hair is still messed up from where he slept on it, and Dean wants to drag him down to the couch and make love to him right the fuck now. He knows he’s messed up in the head, knows this feeling is probably the byproduct of all his trauma because Cas is the first non-relative to stand up for him and try to protect him, but Dean can’t find it in himself to care about any of that.</p><p> </p><p><em>Shit. Fuck.</em> Talk about the worst timing in the world.</p><p> </p><p>He’s still staring transfixed at the angry blush working its way through Cas’s cheeks when Eileen says, “Hey! Earth to Dean?” He starts back to reality with a slow blink.</p><p> </p><p>“We’re leaving,” she says and also signs, which is sweet of her but her hands still move too fast for him to catch everything. “I’ll be here tomorrow morning with the results and Henriksen if he’s needed. Okay?” She doesn’t wait for him to nod in response. “Try to relax.”</p><p> </p><p>As if he could relax. He’s just learned he was kidnapped by his own grandparents as a child and now he’s in love with the man who is arguably his best, and currently his only, friend. He would sign to her that his life is a nightmare but he doesn’t know the sign for nightmare. Eileen’s refrained from teaching him the bleak stuff. He glares at her like she’s done it on purpose and she gives him a cringey sort of smile, misunderstanding.</p><p> </p><p>“I know, but try.”</p><p> </p><p>Reidy leaves without so much as a goodbye, Eileen close behind him. After shooing them out Cas leans against the front door, eyes closed and shoulders slumped. He lets loose an explosive sigh, and Dean wants to hug him. He also wants to hide in his — the <em>guest room</em> — and be left alone forever. He doesn’t know which he wants more.</p><p> </p><p>Gracie saves him from having to decide. She’s been lurking in the hallway, waiting on the strangers to leave. The moment they’re gone she bolts into the living room and runs straight for Dean, not Cas. He’s too shocked by the sudden appearance of a six-pound cat in his lap that he forgets for a moment he’s allergic. When she bumps his chin with the hard part of her skull, his hands come up to pet her of their own accord.</p><p> </p><p>“Gracie!” Cas scolds, already on his way to pick her up. “Leave him alone! You’ll make him break out in hives.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean sneezes with perfect timing, but he waves Cas away. Her fur feels soft and her purrs rumble against his chest and Dean needs a moment to forget the shit show that is his life.</p><p> </p><p>Cas sits next to them, rolling his eyes. “She’s never this affectionate with me when I’m upset. I think you’ve stolen my cat’s love. Unfair, considering you won’t be able to hold her much longer.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean sneezes again, more viciously this time, and Gracie leaps over his shoulder to sit perched on the back of the couch, tail swinging in Cas’ face.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you want to talk about it?” Cas’s voice is serious, but the effect is somewhat muted by his cat-tail mustache.</p><p> </p><p>Dean shakes his head. He doesn’t think he can talk right now, not even to Cas.</p><p> </p><p>Cas, as always, is too good to him. He holds up the remote. “Dr. Sexy then?”</p><p> </p><p>Dean tries to smile and instead ends up breaking, lips curling and eyes welling up with tears. He doesn’t even know what he’s crying about — Cas’s simple but effortless kindness, his mother, Gwen, the family he belongs to that it doesn’t feel like he belongs in. Cas pulls him in without a word, letting Dean rest his head on his shoulder. Dean’s hands come up to grip Cas’s shirt tight, hanging on with everything in him as Cas puts his arms around him. The last time they held each other like this Dean was pissed and afraid. Now he’s just as afraid but also in love. Funny how both times he felt safer than he’s ever felt in his life.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t quite lose it. He definitely cries. There’s no point in trying to hide it, not with the growing wet spot staining Cas’s grey t-shirt. But Dean doesn’t sob or collapse. He just lets himself be held, lets himself think about how different this feels from Gwen’s or Ma’s hugs, lets himself imagine he can hug Cas anytime, that when he lets go it won’t be the end of this closeness.</p><p> </p><p>Dean does have to let go eventually. He somehow knows Cas won’t be the first to pull away. Cas gives and gives and gives, and Dean takes and takes and takes. He leans back, breaking their hold on each other. As he pulls away, Cas lightly touches his chin with the tips of fingers and makes Dean look at him. For a second Dean thinks Cas might kiss him, and his heart jumps.</p><p> </p><p>Instead, Cas says, “Whatever you need, I’ll do my best to insure you get it. You know that, right?”</p><p> </p><p>And Dean almost says, “I need you.”</p><p> </p><p>Almost.</p><p> </p><p>Instead, he blinks himself back to reality and says, voice shaking, “I can’t talk right now.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas just nods. He scoots back, away from Dean, and Dean’s chest starts to feel tight until Cas grabs a pillow from the edge of the couch, places it in his lap and says, “Here, lay down.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean blinks at him, and Cas blushes. “It’s— It’s stupid, but when I was a kid and I got upset my older sister used to make me put my head in her lap and she’d rub my head. It helped me sleep… I just thought maybe you’d need some sleep, too, because I know last night was a lot and— I’m being weird, aren’t I?”</p><p> </p><p>Dean wishes he could speak up and wipe the embarrassed frown off his friend’s face. He’s become a pretty good listener this past month, and he hears a lot of the things Cas doesn’t say in his stories — that he was abandoned by people he loved for not fitting in well enough and that he still feels the aftershocks of that betrayal to this day.</p><p> </p><p><em>I wouldn’t leave you</em>, Dean thinks, even knowing he almost did. In a strange way he’s glad he almost died in Cas’s arms for a second time, because at least it stopped him from running away from this.</p><p> </p><p>He puts his head in Cas’s lap, and Cas stiffens. Dean forces his own body to relax, breathing out deeply and slinging his feet up on the couch. His nose still itches, but he refuses to sneeze. He waits, and soon Dean feels Cas’s calloused fingertips running through his hair.</p><p> </p><p>It didn’t escape his notice that Cas said his sister did this for him, and it reminds Dean of how his mother — <em>grandmother</em> — would let him lay his head in her lap when he was a child. But this feels distinctly different, intimate in a way he’s not familiar with. Dean closes his eyes. Even when Cas turns on the television, all Dean’s thinking about is the pit growing in his stomach and the fingers running through his hair.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Victor Henriksen is a handsome man. Charming, even. He sits at the little table in Cas’s kitchen and seems to take up half the room. He’s talking about the weather, indulging in a cup of coffee, and Dean wants to scream <em>are they my parents or not?</em></p><p> </p><p>Cas is making breakfast, but his eyes keep darting over to the table, to Dean, and Dean wishes he would just let the damn eggs burn and get over here already.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not a bad drive,” Henriksen is saying to Eileen, who nods stiffly, “but it was helped by the fact that I knew I’d get to deliver some great news at the end of it.” Henriksen looks at Dean, and Dean grips the edges of his chair so hard his knuckles turn white. “As you’ve probably suspected, you’re a Winchester, Dean. The DNA match was irrefutable. John and Mary Winchester are your parents.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean swallows hard. He can feel Cas and Eileen staring at him. They must be wondering if he’s going to talk. He’s already tried and failed; he couldn’t even introduce himself to Henriksen when the detective arrived a few minutes ago. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.</p><p> </p><p>Eileen signs something, but her hands are too fast for him to catch. Henriksen’s smile is looking a little forced but he says, “I understand it’s a lot to take in. Now, I’ve been working on your case for about six years. I’d love to be the one to give John and Mary a call and let them know their son is alive. I’d love for you to be able to talk to them, too. But if you’re not ready yet, I get it. So, Dean — do you want to talk to them, or do you want me to handle it?”</p><p> </p><p>There’s no other recourse than for Dean to turn to Eileen and sign <em>not me</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“He’d like you to call,” she says softly. “He’s not ready. Do you want to stay in the room while Victor talks to them?” She glances at the clock over the stove. “It’s early, and a holiday. They might not be up.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean had forgotten in all this mess that today is Thanksgiving. Based on Cas’s wide-eyed shock, he’d forgotten too.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t know how to sign <em>I’ll stay</em>, so he points down and hopes Eileen picks up the cue. She does. Henriksen pulls out his BlackBerry.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll put it on speaker, okay? If you change your mind and want to chime in, feel free. I know they’d love to hear your voice, Dean.” Henriksen glances over at Cas, who’s given up on moving the eggs around the pan and is blatantly eavesdropping. “Uh, Mr. Novak, this is kind of a private moment. Would you mind?”</p><p> </p><p>Cas’s cheeks redden and he starts to say, “Of course—” but Dean signs <em>no!</em> at Eileen and she interrupts.</p><p> </p><p>“Dean and Cas are good friends, Victor. Dean wants him to stay for emotional support.” She stands. “I won’t be able to hear any of this anyway, so why don’t I make another pot of coffee for us all?”</p><p> </p><p>Henriksen raises his eyebrows. “Okay then. Well, here goes.” And he presses the call button.</p><p> </p><p>The phone rings. Once, twice, three times. It’s so loud. Cas moves the eggs off the burner and comes to stand behind Dean’s chair, one hand on Dean’s shoulder. Over all the mess in his head, Dean thinks <em>I love him. </em>As if he knows, Cas squeezes his shoulder. The phone rings again.</p><p> </p><p>A sleepy sounding woman’s voice answers, “Victor?”</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s breath stutters. Henriksen glances up at him before he says, “Hi Mary. Sorry to call so early.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s Thanksgiving.” Her voice is clearer now, but Dean hears a slight shake to it. “Is— Did you find something?”</p><p> </p><p>“You could say that,” Henriksen says vaguely, and Dean wants to shake him. This poor woman — <em>no, not just any woman, his </em>mother, <em>not his sister</em> — must be going out of her mind. “Is John there? You should both hear this. Sam and Adam, too, if they’re around.”</p><p> </p><p>Sam is the brother. The baby from the dream. Adam came after Dean… left. The half-brother. He read the article Cas found online. His brothers think he’s dead. But Mary believes. His heart feels like it’s going to beat its way out of his chest. Without thinking, Dean reaches up and grabs Cas’s hand with his own. Cas doesn’t move.</p><p> </p><p>“Adam’s studying abroad.” Mary is clearly trying to inject some normality into this conversation, but she still sounds like she’s on the verge of crying. “I’ll wake Sam. Hold on, please.”</p><p> </p><p>There are a lot of muffled sounds, and Dean imagines the blonde woman from his dreams throwing on a robe and slippers, pounding down the stairs to her son’s old bedroom. There are soft voices, and he can’t hear what they’re saying but he knows there’s an urgency to it. The whistle of a tea pot comes over the line so loudly Dean starts as if it’s in the room with them.</p><p> </p><p>Then Mary’s back, loud and clear. “The boys are here now, Victor.”</p><p> </p><p>“This is about Dean?” The man’s voice is gruff, deep. <em>John</em>, Dean thinks. His father. “What have you found? Some new lead?”</p><p> </p><p>“Let him talk,” insists another voice, a younger man. Sam.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not a lead,” Henriksen says. He’s smiling. Dean’s chest aches. “We’ve found Dean.”</p><p> </p><p>Silence. Then an “Oh my god” from Mary that sounds somewhere between elation and devastation and “Are you saying you found his body? Or is he alive?” from John, sharp and anxious.</p><p> </p><p>“Alive,” Victor reassures them, and Mary bursts into tears. This time Sam says, “Oh my fucking god.”</p><p> </p><p>“He’s alive,” Victor repeats, and someone in the Winchester house sounds like they’ve collapsed into a chair. “He’s in West Virginia; he’s okay.” Victor smiles at him. Dean’s breathing quickens. “We’ve already matched the DNA. He’s a healthy, handsome young man. I’ll be happy to arrange a flight out first thing tomorrow so you can meet.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, yes!” Mary says, somewhat garbled but loud.</p><p> </p><p>“Where the hell has he been?” Now there’s a crack in John’s voice. He’s crying, too. “Who took him?”</p><p> </p><p>Henriksen purses his lips. “I’m afraid I can’t discuss that over the phone, John. Dean… Dean was actually found by the FBI.”</p><p> </p><p>“The FBI?” Sam asks, incredulous.</p><p> </p><p>“He’s a witness in a case that we now know is tangentially related to his kidnapping. It’s ongoing, and I’m sure Dean’s FBI liaison will provide you with the details she can when you get here. For now, it’s important for you to know that he’s safe.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh my god,” Mary says again. “Has he been hurt?”</p><p> </p><p>Dean sees everyone else around the table tense. They’re thinking of one thing, one moment — a noose around his neck, hanging in the woods. But he’s thinking of a hundred hidden bruises and every hit that never left a mark. Cas squeezes his shoulder again, and it reminds him to breathe.</p><p> </p><p>“He was injured,” Henriksen says carefully, “when he was found. But he’s recovering.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean appreciates the use of the present tense — recovering. At least it’s honest. His body might be alright now, but his mind sure as hell isn’t.</p><p> </p><p>“Is he in a hospital?” Mary’s working herself into a panic, spiraling louder and louder.</p><p> </p><p>“No, he’s staying with a friend. I promise I’ll fill you in as much as I can as soon as you get here. He’s really okay, Mary. He’s really alive.”</p><p> </p><p>She’s crying again. John is, too. Sam comes on, voice slightly more level than his parents’. “We’ll take the first flight you can get us out of Kansas City. Just — text us the details on the tickets. I’ll tell Adam, too. Can you get him home?”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course,” Henriksen promises. “The Bureau will help handle all the details. You just need to get to the airport on time.”</p><p> </p><p>John asks, “Can we speak with him now?”</p><p> </p><p>Henriksen holds Dean’s gaze. Dean’s hands tremble in his lap. He shakes his head. It’s not that he doesn’t want to. He just… can’t.</p><p> </p><p>“He’s still a bit shaken up about all of this,” Henriksen says, cool and calm. “It’s a lot, to learn you’re not who you thought you were and that you have a whole family out there looking for you. He does want to meet you, but he wants to talk to you in person first.”</p><p> </p><p>The last part is bullshit, but it’s not like Dean can refute it. Yes, he wants to meet them. No, not so soon and not in person. Not when it feels like his whole world is broken and he’s looking at the pieces holding nothing but some scotch tape to try and put it all back together. Not when he’s such a fucking mess. Such a failure.</p><p> </p><p>Cas’s grip almost hurts, but Dean doesn’t let go of him, either. The rest of the conversation seems to blur around him, fading out. Dean focuses on the feeling of Cas’s fingers under his and the warm weight of Cas’s hand on his shoulder. Cas is here, and he feels more real than anything else in Dean’s fucked up life.</p><p> </p><p>The Winchesters are still crying when they tell Henriksen goodbye. He leaves not long after, patting Dean on the shoulder as he goes.</p><p> </p><p>“They’re good people,” he says. “I wish I could tell them I’d solved this for them and brought you home, but I’m happy to get to deliver the news. Sweet family. They might not understand everything you’re going through, but they love you, Dean. Try to give them a chance, okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Henriksen’s a little more prescient than Dean’s comfortable with. He forces out an, “Okay. Thanks.” Cas, who’s moved to sit next to Dean, watches the detective leave with an inscrutable look on his face.</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry,” Dean says once the front door has closed behind Henriksen. Eileen is still messing around with the bacon at the other end of the kitchen, so Dean doesn’t worry about her reading his lips. “All these people are invading your home because of me.”</p><p> </p><p>Sometimes Cas looks at him with such fondness it makes Dean feel like he can’t breathe. He’s doing it now, eyes soft as he says, “I would do anything to help you. I don’t mind.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know. I just—” <em>I wish I hadn’t brought all this shit into your life.</em> “I know I’m not easy to deal with right now.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas makes a face. “Dean, this is an incredibly traumatic experience. You’re coping very well, all things considered.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean scoffs. “Are you kidding me, man? I can’t talk to anyone but you, I’m hardly sleeping, and I can’t even eat.” He laughs bitterly. “I used to <em>always</em> be hungry. And to top it off, I know I should be excited to meet these people—” He pauses. “To meet my family. But all I can think about is my mom and Gwen and the others. I need them to be safe. I feel like I’m going out of my fucking mind with worry. I try to think about something else, and all I do is picture Gwen, trapped somewhere.” He’s not going to lose it. Not even if Cas would let him break down without judgement. “I gotta get back out there. I have to help them.”</p><p> </p><p>“You will,” Cas reassures him. “We just need to come up with a plan. And we need some idea of where they are.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve been thinking. I mean, I’m wracking my brain for any ideas.” Dean rubs his temples. “I don’t know, Cas. I just don’t fucking know.”</p><p> </p><p>“We’ll find them,” Cas says with a conviction Dean envies. Cas might be unsure when it comes to social situations, but he has an air of optimism, a certainty that everything will turn out in their favor, that Dean admires.“Maybe… Maybe Bobby could help.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean lifts his head from his hands. “You think he would?”</p><p> </p><p>Cas says softly, “Of course, Dean. He loves you.” Dean bites back an incredulous laugh. It’s hard to imagine the cantankerous old man loving anyone. “He does! You think he spends that much time with just anyone? He’ll help. Bobby knows this area better than anyone else I know. He could at least help us brainstorm.”</p><p> </p><p>“I need to tell him—” Dean waves a hand in the air “—about all of… this. About my family.”</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t have to. It was just a suggestion.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, well.” He sighs. “I guess I have a soft spot for the old guy, too.” Dean cocks his head at Cas. “Hey, what do you think he’s doing for Thanksgiving?”</p><p> </p><p>And that’s how, several hours later, Bobby Singer ends up sitting at Cas’s kitchen table in the same spot where Henriksen sat for breakfast. Dean’s never seen Bobby wear anything other than his park ranger uniform or a worn-out plaid shirt and jeans, but today he’s dressed in what is apparently his best: actual goddamn slacks and a white button down with a small bleach stain on the collar. Dean stares at him over the fast food bags Cas has placed on the table.</p><p> </p><p>“Stop it,” Bobby grumbles at him. “It’s a holiday. How was I supposed to know you idjits would be dressed like slobs as always?”</p><p> </p><p>“Hey!” Cas points a plastic straw at Bobby. “Who went to every fast food place in town to get you this feast?”</p><p> </p><p>“When you said come over for Thanksgiving, I expected turkey sandwiches at least—”</p><p> </p><p>Dean clears his throat. “Cas can’t cook.” The other two men stop rooting through the Taco Bell bags and look up at him. Cas smiles, and Bobby just raises his eyebrows.</p><p> </p><p>“I thought maybe you had a hidden talent, princess.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean shrugs. “I’m an okay cook. But I burnt toast one time because Cas’s toaster is piece of shit and he hasn’t let me back in the kitchen since.”</p><p> </p><p>Now Cas turns on Dean. “You didn’t ever tell me you liked cooking!”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, I’m better at baking,” Dean admits. “My mom—” His throat feels tight, so he swallows hard. “She taught me how to bake a pretty mean apple pie.”</p><p> </p><p>Bobby says, “My wife made the most incredible pies.” His voice is softer than Dean’s ever heard it, light and fond. “She’d go crazy on Thanksgiving. Pumpkin, apple, pecan, blueberry, chocolate. Even though it was just the two of us and she’d end up giving most of them away to the neighbors, she’d spend all day baking up a storm. Said it relaxed her.” Bobby coughs, but he can’t hide the thickness of his voice. He starts picking at his quesadilla, done talking.</p><p> </p><p>“My parents were never much for holidays.” Cas sits between Dean and Bobby, a greasy burger from McDonald’s on his plate. “This is about par for the course for the Novak children, except Mom liked to get takeout from Luby’s on Thanksgiving.”</p><p> </p><p>“Disgusting,” Bobby scoffs, and Dean wonders what Luby’s is.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s a chain of buffet restaurants,” Cas explains to Dean as if he’s read his mind. “Very popular amongst the older crowd in the southern states. Their key lime pie tasted heavily of gelatin and not much else. The first Thanksgiving after my parents passed, my older sister tried to make a real key lime pie, but she burnt it so badly my older brother threw it out.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas laughs, but stops when he sees both Bobby and Dean staring at him, aghast.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m an orphan. They died in a car accident when I was sixteen, and my eldest brother raised the rest of us,” he says slowly. “I— I thought you knew?”</p><p> </p><p>Bobby shakes his head. “You don’t talk that much about your life, kid.”</p><p> </p><p>“I could make you a real key lime pie,” Dean offers, trying to lighten the mood. He’s trying to forget his own Thanksgivings, spent with a gun in his hands and Samuel’s eyes on his back. He turns to Bobby. “And apple, or whatever you like. Not today, but after—” <em>After my real family comes here to meet me. </em>Cas is watching him closely. Dean wishes he could grab his hand and hold it under the table. “Just… later. Definitely for next Thanksgiving.”</p><p> </p><p>Bobby leans back in his chair, a string of cheese stuck to his lip. “You think you’ll be around next year?”</p><p> </p><p>Dean can’t look at Cas when he says, “I don’t know.” He doesn’t, though, does he? Will the Winchesters want him to move to Kansas? Will they have found Samuel by then? Will he need to stay around for a trial? What about Cas? Would he want Dean here? Dean’s stomach hurts. “I hope so.”</p><p> </p><p>“I hope so, too.” Cas smiles at him. It’s a brilliant smile, gummy and tender. No one else, not even Lisa, has ever looked at him like that — like he’s something incredible, someone worth something. Dean doesn’t even realize they’re staring at each other until Bobby clears his throat. They both jump. Cas is blushing, and Dean thinks <em>maybe he feels the same. </em>Suddenly he wishes Bobby weren’t here. He likes the old man a lot, sure, but now — Now Dean wants to test that theory, and he sure as hell isn’t going to try to kiss Cas with his somewhat-father-figure sitting right there.</p><p> </p><p>“Anyway,” Bobby says, “I would love to taste your attempt at an apple pie, Dean.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s cheeks are red as he forces his attention away from Cas and back to Bobby. “My attempt? You make it sound like you don’t believe in my baking prowess.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, I’ve seen you microwave a Hostess Cupcake.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, those are better slightly warmed!”</p><p> </p><p>“Slightly nuked, you mean…”</p><p> </p><p>Dean continues to bicker with Bobby, but for the rest of the meal half his mind is on Cas. At least it’s an improvement over obsessing about everything else going wrong in his life.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“That was nice,” Cas says. He’s washing the dishes off and handing them to Dean, who dries them and puts them back in their intended place. He’s never known anyone else’s kitchen as well as his own until he moved in with Cas. “I’m glad Bobby agreed to come. And see, I told you’d he’d agree to help.”</p><p> </p><p>He’d done more than agree to help — he’d listened without comment to Dean’s story, and he’d offered to be there for the first meeting with Dean’s family. “Just for backup,” Bobby’d said gruffly, still trying to act like he didn’t care. Dean recognizes a liar when he sees one.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” Dean sorts through the silverware drawer. Cas has a lot of old spoons and forks he guesses are heirlooms. “Do you think he’s normally alone on the holidays?”</p><p> </p><p>“Probably.” Cas passes him a plate. “Karen died a long time ago, and I don’t think he has any family. I wouldn’t be surprised if Jody hosts him sometimes, though.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean hums in agreement. “I always thought maybe those two had a thing going.”</p><p> </p><p>“‘A thing going?’” Cas laughs. “Eloquent.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean reaches over into the sink and flicks some of the dirty dish water at him. “What, would you prefer I say ‘they’re fucking?’” Cas whips the dishrag at Dean, splattering his t-shirt with sudsy water.</p><p> </p><p>“Disgusting,” he admonishes. “That man is my boss, Dean!”</p><p> </p><p>“What, you don’t want to think about Bobby doing the do?”</p><p> </p><p>Cas’s cheeks are bright red. “I don’t want to think about anyone I work with ‘doing the do.’” He actually does air quotes. Adorable.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s too bad, because now I want you to imagine Garth in bed.”</p><p> </p><p>“No! Stop!” Cas whips the dishrag at Dean again, and Dean dodges it with an easy grace. After all, he’s trained for most of his life to dodge much deadlier weapons. “Shut up!”</p><p> </p><p>“I bet he’d be a generous lover!” Another blow misses, and Dean grabs the rag right out of Cas’s hands. Cas lunges for it, and Dean holds it over his head “He seems like the eager-to-please type. You just gotta watch out for the pointy elbows.”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t be mean,” Cas says, but he’s grinning. He’s caught the edge of the rag now, pulling it down and Dean’s hand with it. They’re pressed against each other, shirts wet with dirty water, and Dean’s heart thuds away in his chest.</p><p> </p><p>Cas stops pulling on the rag. They’re practically holding hands now. Dean thinks he can feel Cas’s own heartbeat, right next to his. Their faces are just inches away from each other, and it feels like a now-or-never moment. Dean’s good at those, or at least he used to be. He’d pick up women at the Roadhouse with a smile and a quick line every other week, back when Samuel trusted him enough to let him “recruit.” Back before Lisa. But it’s been a while, and he’s rusty.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe that’s why his line ends up being, “Do I count as a coworker?”<br/><br/><br/>Cas blinks. “What?”</p><p> </p><p><em>It’s not sexy if you have to explain yourself</em>, Dean thinks with an internal groan. He should have known better, known that Cas needs more overt social cues. “I just mean, if you don’t want to think of any of your coworkers having sex…” He trails off awkwardly.</p><p> </p><p>Cas’s eyes widen. Great, now he gets it and he looks scared out of his mind. Dean steps back so quickly Cas almost falls over onto the counter.</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, that was fucking awkward.” Dean wishes he could crawl in a hole and die. He’s misread this whole situation like it’s a book in a foreign language, and now Cas feels uncomfortable in his own damn house. Dean cringes, turning away. “I’m just gonna—” <em>Go to bed? Run? </em>He doesn’t even know how the sentence ends.</p><p> </p><p>It’s a surprise to feel Cas’s hand on his shoulder, stopping him.</p><p> </p><p>“Hang on.” Dean can’t look Cas in the eye when he turns around. “Dean.” He risks a quick glance up. Cas’s blue eyes are still wide and uncertain, but he can almost see the gears turning behind them. “You’re— You’re hitting on me?”</p><p> </p><p>It sounds so disbelieving Dean would laugh if any of this were funny. If it meant less, maybe he would. But Cas has meant the world to him for a long time now, and Dean’s never been more serious than when he says, “Yeah, I am. I— I like you.” <em>I love you. </em>“I thought maybe you liked me, too.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas’s palms are soft when they touch Dean’s cheeks. “Dean,” he says again, and no one has ever said his name like that before. “I like you <em>so much</em>.” Exhilaration, for just a moment, then Cas says quietly, “But—”</p><p> </p><p>Dean wants to pull away. He doesn’t. His feet feel rooted to the cheap linoleum flooring. “But what?” he asks, trying to keep his voice level.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re going through a lot.” Cas rubs Dean’s cheek with his thumb, and Dean wishes he wouldn’t do that if he’s about to end this relationship before it can even begin. “Just this morning you could barely speak. You’re traumatized and trying to work through that in the midst of life-altering news, and I don’t want to take advantage of you in a vulnerable state.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re not taking advantage of me,” Dean snaps. “I made the move on you, remember? And you think I don’t know I’m vulnerable? Cas, I’ve spent the past two months going out of my mind with anxiety, and you’re the only fucking person who can make me feel normal for five seconds.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas’s breath hitches. “I don’t want you to like me just because I’m the only person trying to take care of you,” he says in an almost whisper, like he doesn’t really want to say it aloud. “I don’t know if that’s really you feeling the same way I feel about you, or if it’s just projection because you feel safer around me…”</p><p> </p><p>“I thought you were hot the moment I saw you in the hospital,” Dean says fiercely. “And I’m not helpless. I need some help right now, yeah, but I’m a pretty fucking dangerous person, Cas.” He takes a half-step closer, so their chests touch. “I can take care of myself. I can take care of myself,” he repeats, “<em>and</em> I want to kiss you. It’s not a goddamn projection. You’re smart and you’re <em>kind</em> and I’m tired of acting like we’re not into each other just because our lives are complicated. Everything else is going to hell, so why shouldn’t we take a shot at a little bit of happiness?”</p><p> </p><p>Cas just stares at him, open-mouthed and silent.</p><p> </p><p>“Please, Cas,” Dean pleads. “I need you.” There’s more to say, but that’s all he can manage. It might be a low blow, considering Cas basically just said he can’t refuse Dean anything. He doesn’t care. He thinks of Cas holding his hand in the hospital, taking him to the movies, letting Dean rest his head in his lap. Dean doesn’t know a lot about relationships, but he knows they’re together in every way but in name.</p><p> </p><p>Cas’s hand comes up, hesitant and slow, and cups his cheek. Dean’s gut churns in anticipation as Cas’s gaze roves over his face and settles on his lips. <em>Just fucking do it already,</em> he thinks. Cas’s eyes flutter closed. He leans in, and Dean meets him halfway.</p><p> </p><p>It’s a soft, sweet kiss. Chaste even. Nothing like the messy preludes to frantic hookups Dean’s used to. No tongue, no teeth. Just bliss. Cas’s other hand winds around Dean’s back, pressing Dean closer to him, and he blindly follows Cas’s lead.</p><p> </p><p>When Cas pulls back he whispers, “I didn’t know. I didn’t want to take advantage of you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Shut up and kiss me,” Dean tells him, and Cas smiles against his lips.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s the most romantic thing you’ve said to me yet.”</p><p> </p><p>“We’re just getting started,” Dean assures him, and he goes back in for another kiss. This time, there’s definitely tongue.</p><p> </p><p>Somehow they end up stumbling down the hallway, drunk off serotonin, Gracie howling behind them. When Cas shuts her outside his bedroom door, Dean raises his eyebrows.</p><p> </p><p>“What?” Cas is flushed red from his cheeks to his shirt collar. “I don’t want her to watch what comes next.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean swallows, tugs Cas toward the bed. “And what happens next?”</p><p> </p><p>Cas leans into him, causing Dean to fall back onto the bed, Cas landing on top with his hands planted on either side of Dean’s head. “Whatever you want,” he says, soft and serious. He leans down and kisses Dean again, slow but insistent, an urgency to it that wasn’t there in the kitchen. Dean grabs his collar and tugs on it, urging Cas to break the kiss and pull his shirt off, which he does. Dean’s head flops back against the mattress as he watches Cas shimmy out of his jeans. One foot gets stuck and he has to kick them away, but it’s still sexy as hell.</p><p> </p><p>He lets Cas undress him, lazy and easy, kissing between each article of clothing that gets removed. Cas doesn’t just kiss his mouth — he drops an open-mouthed kiss to Dean’s collarbone after he takes his shirt off; he kisses his belly and his thighs, his chest and his cheeks. By the time they’re both naked, Dean feels like Cas’s mouth has been everywhere except the place where he really needs it, but he’s too blissed out to complain.</p><p> </p><p>But when Cas finally does take Dean in his mouth, it feels like he’s coming undone. Dean’s fists clench in the sheets, legs spasming in their grip around Cas’s sides as the warm heat of Cas’s mouth envelopes him. He can’t help but jerk his hips forward a bit. Cas simply moves with him like a pro, one hand on Dean’s stomach to stabilize him. Dean wraps his legs around Cas’s back, says, “I need to—” and Cas rubs his hand up Dean’s chest. He loses it then, orgasming so hard and fast he almost can’t breathe for it. Cas takes it all, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand once it’s over.</p><p> </p><p>He crawls over Dean, jerking off to Dean’s still unsteady panting. Cas’s chest is heaving and red, his eyes wide as they roam over Dean’s body. Dean reaches up to help, brain still mostly offline, and he only has to get a hand on Cas for the other man to come all over his chest. Cas orgasms quietly, biting his lip, and maybe later Dean will ask why, but for now he just pulls Cas down, heedless of the mess between them, and hugs him with all his might.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Dean’s hands won’t stop shaking. Cas is holding one, driving one-handed down the highway toward the park office, and Dean’s griping his notebook with the other, but still the tremors won’t stop.</p><p> </p><p>Cas hasn’t said anything yet, but Dean can tell he’s nervous, too. He’s holding himself too stiffly, and he’s been much quieter this morning than normal.</p><p> </p><p>“Cas,” he says, because someone has to break the silence. “I— I know this gonna sound bad, but can we not tell them about us?” Cas’s hand jerks in his, and Dean holds on to it tighter.</p><p> </p><p>“Of course, Dean.” His voice is level, but Cas can’t hide the way his jaw clenches. Dean’s stomach churns with guilt. “That’s reasonable.”</p><p> </p><p>““No! Not like… I’m not ashamed! I just don’t know what they’re like, and I don’t… I meant just not yet. I swear it’s not about you.” Dean drops his head on Cas’s shoulder and is relieved when Cas bumps it with his own. “I care about you, and I <em>will </em>tell them. I mean, hell, I’ll tell Bobby today. I just want to hold off on complicating things more with my… my parents. For now.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know,” Cas says gently. “It’s a knee-jerk reaction for me to hear something like that and think rejection is imminent. We could keep it a secret forever if we need to. I just worried you were going to say we shouldn’t be together at all.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean wants to ask why Cas would jump to the worst conclusion, but now isn’t the time. They’re on the last stretch of highway before the turnoff to the park entrance. The Winchesters can’t be far behind. He’s shaking again. Cas lets go of his hand to pull him in, pressing him up against his side and ignoring the way their seatbelts clank together.</p><p> </p><p>“They’ll love you,” Cas says, as if sensing what Dean needs to hear. “You’re easy to love.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean turns his head into Cas’s chest, breathing in the scent of his deodorant and cologne. “I don’t know if I’ll even be able to talk to them,” he admits. After Cas fell asleep last night, Dean stayed up staring at the popcorn ceiling and trying to practice forming the words. <em>Hi, I’m Dean</em>. Even when he wasn’t saying anything out loud his throat still seemed to close up. What if they think he’s some kind of fucked up freak?</p><p> </p><p>“Dean, whether you can talk or not changes nothing about who you are.”</p><p> </p><p>“You sound like Pamela,” he grumbles into Cas’s chest.</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe you should see her more often.” He doesn’t look up, but he feels Cas shift as he turns the wheel. “I’d rather stick to being your boyfriend and not your therapist.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean pulls away as they turn down the bumpy service road to the park. “Boyfriend?”</p><p> </p><p>Cas blushes. “Well, we don’t have to—”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve never had one before,” Dean admits before Cas can get too worked up. “I might be bad at it,” he adds, a warning he should have given Lisa but didn’t. He doesn’t want to hurt Cas like that. He wants him to know ahead of time.</p><p> </p><p>“I might be bad at it, too. Every relationship I’ve ever had has been quick and ultimately unfulfilling,” Cas says, turning to look at Dean. “I don’t see it being like that with you. It’s not about the rush or the sex, it’s—” He pauses, thinking, fingers drumming against the wheel. “It’s like you said, we should take a shot at happiness. <em>You</em> make me happy. I want to make you happy, too”</p><p> </p><p>Dean smiles, and, even though he’s still terrified, the weight on his chest feels lighter. “You do make me happy.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas smiles back. He has a soft smile, closed lipped but genuine. “I’m glad to hear that.”</p><p> </p><p>As they turn the bend to the park office, Dean’s heart speeds up. Bobby’s already there, sitting on the front porch next to Eileen. There’s a “Closed” sign hanging in the window on the front door.</p><p> </p><p>“He didn’t have to do this,” Dean says, pointing out the sign to Cas.</p><p> </p><p>“He’s not supposed to.” Cas shakes his head. “But I think he’s got Garth covering the trails.” He moves his arm off Dean’s shoulder as they park. “I can’t believe how soft that old man is for you.” His words might seem harsh, but Cas sounds fond. Dean can’t really believe it, either. Finding Cas and Bobby in the same spot is a fucking miracle, and he’s not in the habit of believing in miracles.</p><p> </p><p>Bobby and Eileen wave them over, and Cas starts walking across the drive, boots crunching through the snow. “Are we taking an early lunch break on the government’s dime?”</p><p> </p><p>“Not in front of the feds,” Bobby gripes. He turns to Dean. “How you holding up?”</p><p> </p><p>Dean swallows. “Fine,” he manages, though he’s shivering from more than the cold. Eileen is watching him carefully. He signs a hello and she responds in kind, adding, “Victor just texted me. They should be right behind you.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean nods jerkily. Cas sits on the step next to Bobby, but he’s too jittery to stay still. He starts pacing in front of them, cutting a muddy path through the snow. The others watch, silent. Any second now, another car will pull down the drive. His heart is in his throat and he feels like he’s going to choke on it.</p><p> </p><p>When he hears the sound of tires on gravel, Dean turns slowly. A black SUV is bumping down the road, tires churning up slush. Cas and Bobby both stand. Dean can see them in his periphery, like guards at his side.</p><p> </p><p>He’s about to vibrate out of his skin when the SUV comes to a stop. The windows are tinted a heavy black, so dark he can’t make out anything or anyone inside other than vague shapes. The first door to open is the driver’s. Henriksen steps out, dressed casually in a pea coat and scarf. He grins at Dean, who can’t manage to smile back.</p><p> </p><p>The back door opens next, and Dean’s breath fails him when a woman, tall and blonde, steps out. Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail instead of down in neat curls, and her face has lines he doesn’t remember, but he knows her. Dean stares at Mary Winchester, who stares right back at him, and for a moment he’s a child again and she’s the one he ran to at night.</p><p> </p><p>“Mom,” he says, and he’s not sure if she hears it, but Mary bursts into tears and runs across the lot, heedless of the icy ground. Somehow without his say so his legs are pulling him forward, stumbling through the snow until he meets her. She throws her arms around his neck, her face pressed into his hair as she stands on her tiptoes. Dean hugs her back, stunned to find he’s crying, too.</p><p> </p><p>“Dean,” she says, voice tear-soaked and overjoyed. “Oh my god, Dean…”</p><p> </p><p>Dean holds Mary as tightly as she holds him, like if he lets go she’ll vanish the way she has in hundreds of dreams. He wants to tell her <em>I know you</em> but he’s not sure if he can find the words. It doesn’t seem to matter. She’s not letting go, either.</p><p> </p><p>“Mary,” a voice says from behind them, and she pulls back reluctantly, hands still on his shoulders. “Could I have a turn?”</p><p> </p><p>John and Sam Winchester are right behind her. Dean doesn’t recognize John they way he recognized Mary, but it’s startling to see a bit of his own face reflected in the older man. John’s eyes are teary as he steps forward and claps Dean on the back, taking Mary’s place. Dean’s arms come up automatically to hug back, but he’s still looking at his mom, standing right behind them as if she can’t bear to move an inch away.</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry,” John says gruffly, pulling back to look Dean in the eye. “I know you don’t know us—”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay,” he’s surprised to hear himself say, voice rough but steady. “I—” <em>I missed you; I understand</em>. He doesn’t know if either of those things are totally true. He glances behind John to Sam, long hair hanging just over his eyes. He looks as dumbfounded as Dean feels.</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t believe this,” Mary whispers. “You’re so handsome!” John wraps an arm around her, clearly holding her back from jumping Dean again.</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you?” Dean huffs a light laugh.</p><p> </p><p>“They sent us a picture,” she says, rambling now, “but you don’t really know until you see someone in person, and you still have the freckles you had when you were a toddler—”</p><p> </p><p>“Mom,” Sam says, the first words he’s spoken since they pulled in. “Take a breath.”<br/><br/></p><p>John narrows his eyes at Sam, and Dean feels suddenly trapped between them, awkward and out of place. “Uh—”</p><p> </p><p>“We should all go inside,” Bobby says from behind them, and Dean’s glad for the distraction. He looks at Cas, cheeks red from the cold, and feels instantly warmed and comforted by his slight smile. “I made our medic buy some cocoa this morning, and Dean’s the only one who knows how to get the coffee pot to boil…”</p><p> </p><p>“You melted plastic into the plate,” Dean mumbles, relieved he can still speak and even more relieved to walk forward to meet Cas. “It’s working fine now.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s strange to walk into the park office with the Winchesters and Henriksen in tail. Dean tries to picture it through outsiders’ eyes, to see it the way he saw it when Cas first brought him here. He remembers feeling warm, safe, but maybe that was just a byproduct of Cas’s presence. The air inside smells like burning dust now, the heaters kicking on for the morning, and the exhibits look a little sad and shoddy as they pass from the entrance to the back office.</p><p> </p><p>Dean hesitates in the doorway as Bobby and Cas pull out their office chairs for the Winchesters, waiting until Cas sits on the beat up couch under the park map to take a seat next to him. Bobby sits on the other side, leaving Dean safely wedged between the people he trusts most. He tries not to stare at Mary, tries to ignore the flicker of disappointment he’s sure he sees when he doesn’t take the chair next to her.</p><p> </p><p>There are formal introductions that wash over Dean, who’s trying to focus on how Cas’s elbow is just barely touching his. The Winchesters are nodding at Eileen, who’s leaning against Cas’s desk as she explains they’ll have to look directly at her when speaking to her, and then everyone’s looking to Henriksen, who starts to explain that everything Eileen is going to tell them needs to stay in this room for now.</p><p> </p><p>“Even Dean’s discovery,” he warns, and Dean blinks at his name. “He’s a witness in an ongoing federal investigation.” Dean wishes they didn’t have to lead with this. He wishes he could tune it all out again.</p><p> </p><p>He really wishes he could grab Cas’s hand. It’s so close, resting on his knee mere inches away. He could just reach out and…</p><p> </p><p>“What happened?” The tension in Mary’s voice jolts Dean out of his brief daydream. “Where have you been?”</p><p> </p><p><em>Oh.</em> They’re all looking at him expectantly, even Cas and Eileen. Dean’s caught off guard by the sudden silence, slack-jawed and wide-eyed. He opens his mouth, tries to say, “I don’t know where to begin,” and all that comes out is “I—” and nothing else. The pressure in his chest is back, and once again his throat is tight. He has no words. His fingers twitch on his knees, reaching for a notepad he left in Cas’s truck. They’re all still staring.</p><p> </p><p>It’s Eileen who recognizes the problem first. “I think maybe I should explain,” she says, pulling the attention away from Dean. “I’ll let Dean tell you more when he’s ready, but for now you do need to know the basics of the case—”</p><p> </p><p>She starts from the beginning. Not with four-year-old Dean, the Dean the Winchesters never forgot and the one the man himself can’t remember, but with September’s Dean, the one running for his life through a forest. Eileen tells them how Cas found him, the mystery of his identity, his issues with speaking, the search for those who assaulted him, and Dean stares at the spot on the floor where Garth spilled a can of Coke on the carpet last week. The stain hasn’t come out yet.</p><p> </p><p>He hears all the distressed noises coming from Mary, the comforting hums from his father, but he can’t look at them. His cheeks are heating with a mixture of humiliation and discomfort listening to Eileen talk about him as if he’s not in the room. She’s trying to help, and god knows Dean wouldn’t be able to get any of this out, but he wishes he didn’t have to be here. He wishes he didn’t have to picture the disappointment on Mary’s face when Eileen tells them that Dean didn’t want to give up the people who hurt him at first.</p><p> </p><p>He used to be bolder, or at least that’s what he tells himself, as Eileen continues to tell his own story for him. Or maybe he was never bold, just loud. And look where that got him. When Eileen admits it was Samuel Campbell who took Dean, Mary gasps, so abrupt and loud it hurts, and Dean wishes he could leave the room.</p><p> </p><p>“I thought he was dead,” John says, voice angry and raised, and Dean finally looks up. No one is looking at him anymore. They’re all staring at Mary. She’s gone white in the face, one hand clutching her husband’s with a grip so tight it most be painful. “Mary, you said they were dead!”</p><p> </p><p>“I thought—” Then she turns to Dean, blue eyes piercing. He holds her gaze, and her eyes soften. “Oh, Dean.” She starts to cry, and he realizes that this woman he barely remembers must know what he’s gone through better than anyone in this room. “Oh, baby,” she says, and she’s not really speaking to Dean, but to a child lost long ago, and he doesn’t really hear Mary, but his own Mama. “I’m so sorry.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Sam hasn’t looked at him since Eileen finished talking, which is an improvement upon John and Mary’s reactions. John looks like he wants to murder someone, and Dean has an engrained fight or flight response to that kind of blatant anger. Right now he’s thinking flight, edging around Cas toward the door as Henriksen talks in low tones with the Winchesters. Mary’s eyes follow him, deeply, deeply sad.</p><p> </p><p>Dean isn’t surprised when she breaks away from her husband and son to stand by him. Cas moves back, and Dean glares at him. Traitor.</p><p> </p><p>“Dean.” His eyes snap back to her, and Mary attempts a watery smile. “Can I—” Maybe he’s not the only one who’s voice fails them. She stops, staring at him, and he can’t take it anymore so he takes her elbow and gently tugs her out of the office and into the entry hall.</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry,” he manages to say, throat still tight. “My mo—” He’s about to say <em>mother</em> and just manages to catch himself, but the way her eyes well up again makes him wonder if she noticed. “I used to get told I needed to learn how to shut up, but now I can’t seem to talk when I need to.”</p><p> </p><p>Mary’s hand twitches like she wants to reach for him. “You sound okay right now.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean shrugs. “I guess it’s because I remember you. Sort of.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll take sort of over nothing.” She smiles again, and this time it seems more genuine. “Dean, I— I’m so sorry. If I had been watching you more closely—”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t think it would have mattered,” he interrupts. “You heard what Eileen, uh, Agent Leahy said. Samuel was likely tracking you for a while. If it wasn’t me it might have been Sam. It’s better that it was me.”</p><p> </p><p>“I ran,” she tells him, and her voice cracks. “I knew he’d never forgive me. But he was talking crazy, wanting to lock us up in the woods somewhere, and Mom—” Dean’s breath hitches, and Mary pauses. “I tried to take her with me. She was too afraid to go.” Her voice wobbles, dissolving. “I never imagined she’d let him do something like this.”</p><p> </p><p>“She tried to protect me,” Dean says, and he knows it’s true. Things he didn’t see when he was a child he started to notice as an adult, especially once the plan to leave was in place — her long sleeve dresses, her pained smiles, the fucking letter. Dean was never protecting her like he thought he was. Samuel fooled them both into thinking their obedience would save the other. “She tried to <em>tell</em> me. I didn’t listen. I didn’t want to know.”</p><p> </p><p>Mary blinks, and tears drip down her cheeks. “Why?”</p><p> </p><p><em>She’s my mother and I love her,</em> Dean thinks, but he says, “They’re all I know. And I had to take care of the others. I still need to find them.”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course.” Mary purses her lips, nodding to herself. “I know you’re not ready now to come home with us, but once the investigation is over—”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know.” It’s hard to get the words out when he knows they’ll hurt her. Dean forces them anyway. “I— I can’t think about that right now. I’m sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>Mary’s face falls. “Right.” At that moment the rest of the group swarms through the door. Cas walks swiftly in the lead, mouth pinched as he nods at Dean and Mary. Dean wonders what was said in their absence.</p><p> </p><p>“Dean,” John’s deep voice startles him. “Henriksen is going to take us to our hotel to settle in. Would you like to come with us?”</p><p> </p><p>Now all three Winchesters, including Sam, are staring at him. Dean’s so tired of all the staring. He looks at Mary, because he’s not sure he could handle speaking to anyone else. “I think I’m going to go back with Cas,” he says quietly.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay.” She plasters on a fake smile. She actually looks like a younger version of Mama when she does that. Dean’s heart sinks. “Well, we owe Castiel and Bobby so much for their part in rescuing you. We’d love to treat them to dinner tonight. Where do you want to go?”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh…” He’s not remotely prepared for this, and he wishes Cas would pick up the slack.</p><p> </p><p>“I owe Cas dinner as well,” Bobby interrupts first. Dean looks blankly at him, and Bobby shrugs. “Maybe everyone could come over to my place tonight? I can grill something, and Dean, you can make me that pie you owe me.” Dean lets relief wash over him — Cas <em>and </em>Bobby in a neutral location, maybe he won’t have to talk — until Bobby says, “And it will be more private than a restaurant, give you folks some time to get to know each other while Cas helps me with the food.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t cook, and you know this,” Cas says, and he’s ignored as the Winchesters nod and murmur their thanks, exchanging contact info with Bobby.</p><p> </p><p>“Leahy, Henriksen, you’re free to come, too.”</p><p> </p><p>“My part here is done,” Henriksen says, clapping Sam on the back. The other man winces but doesn’t say a word. Dean wonders what’s going through his head. “I’m flying back early tomorrow. I’ve got other cases to work on.”</p><p> </p><p>Eileen looks at Dean, signs something that he thinks is <em>do you want me there? </em>He nods. The more, the merrier.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s settled, then,” John says with the air of a man used to people listening to him. He tucks Mary under one arm and puts his other hand on Sam’s shoulder. They’re a united front, a <em>family</em>, and they’re all looking at Dean as if they’re just now realizing he’s someone they don’t recognize anymore. “We’ll see you tonight.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean nods and tries to smile. Mary slips out from under John’s arm to hug him again, and it’s not so hard to lift his arms to hug her back. This, if nothing else, feels right. “We love you,” she whispers to him before she pulls away. “We’re so happy you’re safe.”</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t have the heart to tell her he’s not so sure he is safe. It’s easier to let her pretend, if only for for a moment. The Winchesters follow Henriksen to the SUV, but Mary looks back at him over her shoulder as they walk away, and Dean knows she knows the truth. She knows exactly what he’s running from. She knows Samuel won’t ever let him be safe.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Cas is waiting on him to talk. He’s patient. Dean’s watched him handle rooms full of screaming children with a flustered sort of grace; seen how kindly he takes all of Garth’s little blunders; seen how he just fondly rolls his eyes when Bobby’s being especially cantankerous. And Cas has always been good to him, waiting for Dean to make the first move. So Cas lets him shop for groceries in silence, and now Cas is going to watch him bake a pie in silence.</p><p> </p><p>Cas is a saint, and Dean doesn’t deserve him.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know how I feel,” Dean admits as he’s rolling out the dough. Cas has his elbows on the counter, and Dean’s getting flour on his black sweater sleeves. Cas doesn’t seem to mind. “They seem nice enough, but—” He sighs, putting his back into it, flattening the crust with all the force his raging mind needs to expel. “But I don’t know them.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m proud of you,” is how Cas responds to this confession. “You at least tried to talk to them. It meant a lot to them.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean scoffs. “Until they realized I’m not their toddler anymore.”</p><p> </p><p>“They don’t know you, either,” Cas gently reminds him. “Everyone is in a very strange position here. They do love you, though. I can tell.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean thinks about what Cas said earlier, <em>you’re easy to love</em>. He’s afraid to ask what he meant.</p><p> </p><p>“I remembered her,” he says instead, thinking of Mary’s soft smile, lined with wrinkles at the corners. “I used to dream about her.” Cas doesn’t say anything, watching as Dean drapes the crust into the pie tin they bought at Walmart earlier. “When I was a kid, I’d dream of her singing to me all the time. She gave me a necklace, just like the one you found. I didn’t know who she was, but she made me feel—” He thinks of hiding under his bed at night, hoping his father wouldn’t check in on him. “Safe, I guess. I didn’t even know who she was.”</p><p> </p><p>“You were four when he took you,” Cas says. “Kids that age don’t form many solid memories.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” Dean picks up the bowl of apple filling and stirs absently. “I don’t remember John or Sam at all, really. There was a baby in some of my dreams, but... I don’t know. How am I supposed to tell them that?”</p><p> </p><p>“I doubt they’re expecting you to remember.”</p><p> </p><p>“What <em>am</em> I supposed to talk to them about?” Dean might be stirring too hard. The apples are getting mushy. “I don’t even know if I <em>can</em> talk. It just—” He growls, frustrated. “It comes and goes and I can’t fucking control it! The way they were looking at me—” Not like someone they didn’t recognize, but like someone they <em>couldn’t</em>. “Cas, I don’t know how to be what they need me to be.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then worry about being yourself.” Cas reaches out to pull his hand off the spoon, holding it in his. “They’ll get to know you, just like you’ll get to know them.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean stares at the pie crust, an empty shell waiting to be filled, and thinks <em>it’s not that easy.</em> “If you could see your family again, would you be yourself or would you try to be who they wanted you to be?”</p><p> </p><p>It’s not a fair question, and Dean knows it as soon as he asks. Cas pulls his hand away, face blank as leans back</p><p> </p><p>“Cas,” Dean starts, “I’m—”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know,” Cas says. He’s looking at his hands, not at Dean. “I don’t think I’ll ever see them again, so it doesn’t matter.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry.” Dean wishes he could put his foot in his mouth. “I shouldn’t have brought them up.”</p><p> </p><p>“They saw me for myself and they didn’t like what they saw,” Cas continues as if he hasn’t heard Dean. “So I guess if I were with them it wouldn’t matter what I did. I couldn’t fake it to appease them. They’ve already made up their minds about me.” He sighs. “I’m not trying to trivialize what you’re going through, Dean. I think if they love you, they’ll understand how complicated this situation is and they’ll stand by you as you work through it. And if they don’t, then they don’t deserve you.” He looks Dean in the eye then, and Dean pushes the bowl aside and walks around the counter, stopping in front of Cas.</p><p> </p><p>“They didn’t deserve you,” he says, and he knows from the crestfallen look on Cas’s face that this is about more than Cas leaving the fucking family profession, but he doesn’t ask. Dean takes another small step forward and lets Cas lean on him, his forehead coming to rest in the center of Dean’s chest, next to his heart where he belongs. He wraps his arms around Cas, heedless of the sticky apple-cinnamon goo on his hands. “You’re easy to love, too.” His throat tightens when Cas’s breath shudders, but Dean pushes on. “If your family couldn’t see that, then they’re fucking morons.” He pauses and adds, “And I hate them.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas laughs a little. “They would hate you. And that’s a compliment.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean rubs his back, guiltily relieved he gets to be the chest to cry on for once. “Why, because I’m too damn handsome?”</p><p> </p><p>“Because you’re a good man.” Cas pulls back, rolling his eyes. They’re a little moist. “Because you’re a <em>man, </em>really.”</p><p> </p><p><em>Oh</em>. Dean nods, understanding. “Samuel was like that.” His stomach churns, remembering Caleb and Gwen’s sudden arranged marriage. “It wasn’t even religious, I don’t think. He just wanted to control every aspect of my life.”</p><p> </p><p>“He did a poor job at that.” Cas smiles faintly. “Look at you now.”</p><p> </p><p>“Look at you.” Dean kisses him on the side of his mouth, quick and chaste. “You found your own family.” Cas squints. “I mean, Bobby loves you, even if he wouldn’t admit it to save his miserable old life. Jody sends you care packages. Garth worships the ground you walk on.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, Garth is like that with every—”</p><p> </p><p>Dean points a finger in Cas’s face. “They’ve adopted you, Cas. Admit it.”<br/><br/><br/>Cas looks wide-eyed and thoughtful as Dean pulls away and goes back to his pie. “I guess I never thought of it that way,” he admits, watching as Dean scoops the filling into the tin. “You know, if they adopted me then they adopted you, too. Bobby for sure.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s cheeks heat. “I’ve already got a family,” he says quietly, and he knows Cas knows he doesn’t mean the Winchesters.</p><p> </p><p>“You can have more than one,” Cas tells him, voice soft. “You don’t have to feel guilty for meeting with them, Dean. They’re not going to replace your mother or Gwen. You’re still going to find them. You’re just adding more people to your family in the meantime.” Cas pauses, says, “I’d like to be a part of it.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean stares at him, dumbstruck, and Cas starts to turn away, face red. Dean grabs him by the chin, gently tugging him back. Cas looks afraid, and Dean can’t think of a single thing to say to reassure him, to let him know that no, it’s not too much too soon because they’ve been falling for each other since Dean wrote his name on Cas’s hand in the hospital. He’s never been good with words, so Dean chooses action. He kisses Cas firmly, holding his chin in place, keeping the pressure on until Cas melts into it, relaxing enough to put his hands on Dean’s waist, feather light.</p><p> </p><p>When they come up for air, Cas says, “Whatever happens, I’m with you.” It’s the kind of promise Dean has to lean forward and taste.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Dinner is painful.</p><p> </p><p>There’s not really another word to describe it. Even though Mary and John both hugged him upon arriving, even though John clapped Cas hard on the back and told him they owe him everything, even though Bobby of all people is trying to play referee by talking cars with John and Mary, who apparently own an auto restoration shop, there’s still too much silence. For the past minute, all Dean’s heard is the scratching of utensils against plates and the soft sounds of chewing.</p><p> </p><p>“The food is delicious, Bobby.” Mary dabs at her mouth with a napkin. She’s sitting across from Dean, and every time he looks up from his plate he catches her staring at him.</p><p> </p><p>“Ah, well. I can grill steaks and not much else.” Bobby, having exhausted cars and food, looks at Dean with something like panic in his eyes. Dean makes a face at him, and he hopes Bobby can read the implicit <em>just keep talking, please. </em>Bobby says, “I tried to convince Cas to bring his famous green bean casserole, but he refused.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re the worst,” Cas says with an air of nonchalance that comes from repeating something often.</p><p> </p><p>“There’s a story there.” John points his fork between Cas and Bobby, and Dean’s relieved they’ve bought at least another minute for him to eat in silence.</p><p> </p><p>“We have a potluck at the station every summer to thank our donors, and the first year he’s working there, Cas brings in this casserole that looks, well, normal.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Cas starts, voice warm, and Dean watches him, rapt. “In my defense—”</p><p> </p><p>“There is no defense for mistaking cream of mushroom and cream of tartar!”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s disappointing. And disgusting,” Dean says, as easily as if Cas was the only one in the room. Cas smiles at him, soft and small.</p><p> </p><p>“Well,” he says, “I guess there isn’t an excuse.”</p><p> </p><p>“We all hope Dean made the pie you brought,” Mary tries to joke, and Dean’s brought back to the table full of people with a lurch.</p><p> </p><p>“Speaking of, it’s about time to bring it out.” Bobby stands from the table, chair legs scraping loudly across the floor. “Cas, want to help me?” The old man raises his eyebrows, expectant, and Cas nods, patting Dean on the shoulder as he stands. Eileen, who’s been trying valiantly to follow the conversation, looks relieved as she gets up to follow them.</p><p> </p><p>“We’ll give you some time,” she assures the Winchesters over her shoulder as she disappears into Bobby’s kitchen with the rangers. As soon as they’re gone, silence settles over the table again. Dean’s been looking forward to his pie all night, but now he doesn’t feel hungry at all.</p><p> </p><p>“So,” Mary says, scraping the leftover green beans on her plate into a little pile. “Dean. We’re planning to stay in town for a week so, just so we can all get to know each other a bit better. I wish it could be longer, but John and I have to get back to work.”</p><p> </p><p>“Do you both restore cars?” Dean asks, trying to pick up the thread of conversation Bobby had going earlier. It feels like cheating, but at least trying to talk about cars won’t make him choke on his own words.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m more into restoration.” John throws his arm over the back of Mary’s chair. “Your mother knows her way around an engine, but she likes to handle the administration side of the business more these days.”</p><p> </p><p>“My father always made me help him work on his old beaters,” Mary says, watching Dean. He nods, throat tight.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. I, uh… He taught me, too.” He takes a sip of beer, unable to say anything else.</p><p> </p><p>Silence falls heavy. Sam, who hasn’t said much at all for most of the meal, is the one to break it. “I can’t do this small talk anymore.”</p><p> </p><p>“Samuel—” John starts in a warning tone that makes Dean’s hackles rise. Sam doesn’t seem concerned in the least.</p><p> </p><p>“Let’s start with that. My name,” he interrupts, slamming his fork down onto the table with a bang and glaring at his parents. “Why the <em>hell</em> did you name me after him?”</p><p> </p><p>Dean swallows, eyes on Mary. She blinks at her younger son, taken aback. “I—”</p><p> </p><p>“Your mother has been through this—”</p><p> </p><p>“You thought they died, so what!” Sam throws his hands in the air. Dean just resists the urge to kick him under the table the way Gwen used to kick him when he’d try to talk back to his father. A warning shot he should have heeded more often. “He <em>stole</em> Dean. You can’t tell me you didn’t know he was a bad guy before you gave me his name!”</p><p> </p><p>“It was your father’s idea,” Mary snaps back, voice raised in a way Deanna would never dare. Dean’s fists clench in his lap. “We’d already named Dean after my mother, and he didn’t know about your grandfather’s cruelty. I didn’t tell him. He thought we should honor both of my parents, and I didn’t know how to explain why we shouldn’t without telling him everything.”</p><p> </p><p>“Mary,” John says, hurt.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry.” She’s on the verge of tears. “I thought it would make the memories better, if I associated that name with you instead. I’m sorry. If I’d told you everything, maybe—”<br/><br/><br/>Dean wishes he could disappear into the kitchen without drawing attention. It’s like he’s back in the compound and overhearing Christian and Arlene fighting through the thin walls of the bunker. He’s intruding on a conversation not meant for him, watching a family that isn’t his.</p><p> </p><p>“Mom,” Sam says, and he at least has the grace to appear chagrined, “no one blames you.” Dean doesn’t miss the way his brother’s eyes dart to him for a second, as if daring Dean to challenge him on that. “We just need to talk about….everything. This can’t be a rehash of my childhood. I’m not doing this brushing-shit-under-the-rug shtick for another decade.” He looks at Dean straight on for the first time since they were introduced at the station. “Look, you don’t know us at all, and this is a fucked up situation. But I think it’s better for everyone if we just get everything out in the open now and stop talking about cars and work and food. We’ve all been through hell, and pretending like you’re back and everything is fine now is just putting a bandaid on a bullet wound.”</p><p> </p><p>“He doesn’t have to talk if he doesn’t want to,” Mary insists, voice wavering, but John says, “Sam has a point. I for one would like to hear what’s happened to my son in his own words.”</p><p> </p><p>He and Sam both look at Dean, and he sees the family resemblance in their identical expectantly raised eyebrows. He looks at them and he sees two men used to being listened to and respected, and they’re not Samuel but he still has to look away. He finds Mary’s eyes, and they’re filled with pity.</p><p> </p><p>“I— I don’t know what you want me to say,” he manages.</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t have to tell us anything if you’re not ready,” she says. “But if you are, it might help….to talk about it, I mean.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean wants to ask her if he’ll ever be ready, ask if she ever was. He wants to tell her he’s told this story to Cas, but Cas is different. Cas is a home in a person, and the Winchesters are a wilderness he’s never explored. But the way Mary looks at him, heart on her sleeve and love in her eyes, makes Dean feel more steady. He clears his throat. When he speaks, it’s to his mother.</p><p> </p><p>“I thought they were my parents,” he says. “I thought that until two days ago.” He thinks of his other mother, tears in her eyes, handing him a letter. “I was raised like a soldier, in a compound full of militant people with delusional aspirations about ruling the world after the apocalypse. Pa— Samuel wanted me to help him lead them.” He closes his eyes, shakes his head. “I didn’t want that; I never wanted it. I—” His throat closes up and he finds he can’t say anything more than a quick, “Excuse me.”</p><p> </p><p>He stands from the table so fast he almost knocks his chair over, just managing to right it before he dashes into the hallway, ducking into the tiny bathroom under the stairs to splash water on his face. He shouldn’t be surprised to hear a soft, “Dean,” from behind him, but when he turns around, it’s not Cas. It’s Mary.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry,” she says, taking in his red face and eyes. “Sam is— He means well. So does your father. They’re just pushers.” She smiles sadly. “They always like to lead the way, be the boss. You were a comforter, even when you were little. All you ever wanted to do was cuddle with me or your brother. You’ve still got that softness about you even now.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean grimaces, wicking water off his cheeks. “Pa hated that about me.”</p><p> </p><p>“He’s a cruel man,” Mary says simply. “He didn’t deserve you.” Her eyes well with tears. “But you’re tough enough to survive him, Dean.”</p><p> </p><p>He can’t look her in the eyes, so Dean lets his gaze drop to the floor. “This is a lot,” he admits, voice cracking. “I’m not ready for this. The dinner, the exposition.” He waves his hand in the air. “The interrogation. I want to know you.” He risks looking up, and Mary is watching him, tears on her cheeks. “But I need you to know I love the people I left behind, and I’m not done fighting for them because you’re here. I have another family.” He swallows around the lump in his throat. “I still love Mama. I love the cousins I was raised with. I have to try to protect them from him if I can.”</p><p> </p><p>“What if you can’t?” she asks, and it doesn’t sound combative. Just sad. “I couldn’t protect you, Dean, and it kills me. I don’t want that for you. What my father has done is not your fault. It’s not your responsibility, either. Not the way you were mine.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean closes his eyes tightly, trying to stop from crying. “I need to— I need to go. I’m sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>He feels a hand, feather light, on his arm. “I love you,” Mary says, “more than the moon and stars.” And Dean has to push past her at that, footsteps pounding down the hallway and out the front door, jogging to Cas’s car, hands shaking as he opens the door. He puts his head between his knees the second he’s safely inside, breathing in and out in that heavy pattern Pam taught him until Cas opens the other door.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, Dean,” he says, and Dean lifts his head just enough so his voice isn’t muffled when he says, “I want to go home.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas doesn’t talk on the drive back. Dean assumes he’s already said his goodbyes to Bobby and Eileen for both of them. When they get back to Cas’s, Dean follows him silently through the house, pulling off his clothes and crawling into Cas’s bed without invitation. Cas doesn’t say anything, just slips under the covers next to him.</p><p> </p><p>“We’ll find them,” he reassures Dean, knowing instinctively what Dean needs to hear. Dean just doesn’t want to talk about it right now. Cas hooks his fingers around Dean’s wrists, tugging Dean’s hands to his chest, palms against Cas’s heart. Dean feels it beating there, steady and sure, and he thinks no one he knows has a bigger heart than Cas. It’s unthinkable that his siblings couldn’t see that, couldn’t appreciate it.</p><p> </p><p>“I want you to be my family,” Dean says, because if he doesn’t say something he’ll tell Cas he loves him. He might as well have dropped that bomb anyway, because Cas’s eyes are so soft in the moonlight, round and shining. He pulls Dean’s hand up to his mouth, kisses it gently.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re already mine,” Cas says, tugging him closer, and Dean has never felt safe in his life, but this — Cas’s arms around him, Cas’s faith in him — this comes close.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>In the middle of the night, Dean wakes to Cas’s house phone ringing off the hook. It startles him so badly he nearly topples out of bed, just managing to catch himself on the empty nightstand on his (his? god, it’s been <em>two</em> nights) side. From the bathroom, Gracie yowls her displeasure.</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck,” Cas mutters into his pillow with feeling. Dean watches his hand fumble for the phone, nearly knocking over a glass of water in the process. Cas rolls over, facing Dean, and says, “What” as he picks up.</p><p> </p><p>Dean can’t make out the voice on the other end, but he watches Cas’s eyes widen, suddenly awake and alert. Cas rolls back over and trips out of the bed, legs tangled in sheets, but he manages to keep the phone pressed into the crook between his shoulder and his ear.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you sure?” he asks, and “yes” he says, and “We’re on our way.” Dean sits up, heart in his throat as Cas hangs up with a terse, “Goodbye.”</p><p> </p><p>“What is it?” he asks.</p><p> </p><p>“That was Jody. She’s had an APB put out for your family, and she just got a call from Tran. There’s a woman in labor and delivery at the hospital who says her name is Gwendolyn Campbell.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s head spins. “Are you— Are you serious?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.” Cas tosses a shirt at Dean’s head. “Put this on, we’ve got to go.”</p><p> </p><p>The next half hour feels like swimming underwater, every motion blurred and out of focus. Dean can’t even appreciate Cas changing, or listen to the phone calls he’s making as they drive, or feel his own legs as he walks through the automatic doors of the hospital’s main entrance. Every thought in his mind is <em>Gwen, Gwen, Gwen.</em></p><p> </p><p>Jody meets them on the second floor with coffees and a tense smile. Dean takes the cup she puts in his hand without really registering it, every atom of his being vibrating toward the door she’s guarding.</p><p> </p><p>“Mom’s healthy.” Jody puts a hand on his shoulder, but it’s not nearly as comforting as the way Cas leans slightly against him. “So is baby. A boy. Seven pounds, five ounces. Congratulations, Dean. You’re an uncle.”</p><p> </p><p>He wishes Eileen was here so he could sign her name, but she’s not, so Dean chokes back his fear and asks, “Gwen?”</p><p> </p><p>Luckily, that’s all Jody needs to hear. “It’s her. And she’s not alone.” Jody’s hand squeezes his shoulder. “Most of your friends are at the station getting interviewed by my guys until the FBI can get their task force here, but I made a judgement call to let one stay here with the new mom.” Jody smiles sadly. “I’m afraid I can’t give you much time with her. She’ll be wanted for questioning, but I think it’s only fair you get to ask your own questions first.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean looks at Cas, wide-eyed and hoping for reassurance. Jody wouldn’t say it like that, unless—</p><p> </p><p>“Deanna Campbell?” Cas asks for him, his own shock written all over his face.</p><p> </p><p>Jody nods. “Go on in, Dean.”</p><p> </p><p>He feels Cas’s hand brush against his, fingertips grazing his knuckles before falling away. Dean wants to grab him and hold on, but he doesn’t. He steps through the door alone.</p><p> </p><p>The last time he was in the hospital it was him in the bed, tubes sticking out of his nose and veins, staring at the ceiling and waiting for Cas to visit. He wonders if he looked as small as Gwen does. She’s asleep, curled on her side, dark hair fanned out on the pillow behind her. His breathe catches in his throat when he sees her, and his heart seems to stop when he turns toward the basinet in the corner of the room and sees his mother.</p><p> </p><p>Mama’s standing over the baby, one hand hovering like she was about to place it on his back. She freezes when she sees Dean. Her bottom lip quivers, and even in the dark room Dean catches the tears spilling down her checks.</p><p> </p><p>“Ma,” he whispers, and in two long strides she’s in his arms and they’re both falling to the floor, on their knees and holding each other tight, Dean’s coffee cup dropped and promptly forgotten. She sobs into his shoulder and Dean rocks her, pressing kisses into her gray hair. “I’ve got you. I’m okay. I’m okay.”</p><p> </p><p>He cries, too. He cries because she’s alive and he hadn’t allowed himself to believe that until this moment; he cries because he knows this reprieve can’t last; he cries because Gwen is here and his nephew is here and Cas and the Winchesters are here and the people he loves are <em>safe</em> in body if not in spirit. Dean cries and he holds his mother, and for a moment he forgets that Samuel Campbell exists.</p><p> </p><p>When they pull apart, though, he can’t help but search her face for answers.</p><p> </p><p>“How?” he asks, voice cracking.</p><p> </p><p>Mama glances toward the bed where Gwen still sleeps, unknowing. She tugs on his hands, and Dean helps her stand up. They move to the far corner of the room, away from the sleeping baby and his mother. Mama looks up at him, tears still shining in her eyes, and Dean pulls her into his arms again.</p><p> </p><p>“After— After what he did to you,” Mama whispers into his chest, and Dean holds her more tightly, “we revolted.”</p><p> </p><p>“What,” Dean repeats, mind blank.</p><p> </p><p>“He had his loyalists. Christian—” She almost spits the name. “— a few others. But even those on his side couldn’t stomach the idea he’d hurt <em>you.</em> His own child.” Her voice wavers, but she keeps going. “Everyone started wondering, started talking behind his back — what if he killed Caleb, too? What if there were more bodies out there? Samuel tried to intimidate us. Kept guns on us, marched everyone deeper and deeper into the woods. But Gwen — she knew where you’d hidden the weapons for your escape plan. She was eight months pregnant and ready for war.” Mama almost laughs, but it sounds more like a sob. “We acted complacent. Beaten. And two days ago he finally let his guard down just enough for Max to sneak away from the group. He found your stash, and he brought back a couple of handguns.”</p><p> </p><p>She falls silent. Dean squeezes her, blood pounding in his ears. “What happened?”</p><p> </p><p>“I shot him in the head. There was chaos. Then we ran.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean closes his eyes, holds on to her like if he lets go she’ll vanish. His heart aches. All these years, and he imagined a hundred times walking up to his father and pulling the trigger. He wanted to protect her from this, wanted to protect all of them from this. He failed.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry it had to be you.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not,” Mama says with conviction. She pulls back to look him in the eyes, and he’s reminded of the fierce ways she guarded him as a child. Hiding under tables, bandaging his cuts and bruises, redirecting Samuel’s rages. All the things he didn’t see, couldn’t remember, because he was too caught up in the idea of protecting her. She touches his face with her palm. “I’m sorry for what he did to you, what I allowed him to do. But I’ll never be sorry for sparing you this.” She smiles. “And you’re not the only one who wanted to be free, Dean.”</p><p> </p><p>He’s not sure how to respond to that. Before he can even try, a soft voice from the other end of the room says, “Hey, moron. Get your ass over here.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean turns to see Gwen propped up on her elbows in bed, blinking blearily at him. He rushes toward her, stopping just short of the bed. She rolls her eyes and grabs his arm, tugging him down into a hug.</p><p> </p><p>“We thought you were dead,” she says, and Dean’s not sure he’s ever heard her voice so shaky before.</p><p> </p><p>“You can’t get rid of me that easily.” He holds her gently, carefully, but still tightly. She’s been through a lot — they all have — and he’s sure one day she’ll tell him all about the months he was gone. But for now all that matters is she’s here.</p><p> </p><p>“Too bad I already named the kid after you.” Gwen pulls away and punches his shoulder lightly. “I was too attached to the damn name to let it go, even after they told us you were alive.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean’s eyes dart around the room, from a relaxed and smiling Gwen to his teary mother to the sleeping baby in the basinet.</p><p> </p><p>“Middle name only.” Gwen rests her head on his shoulder. “But still. Meet your nephew. Caleb Dean Campbell.”</p><p> </p><p>For the first time since entering the room, Dean stands on shaking legs and walks over to the basinet. He leans down, quiet and careful, and looks at the baby. Little Caleb is asleep on his back, tiny fists curled up by his head. He’s so small. So loved.</p><p> </p><p>“He’s perfect,” Dean tells Gwen, and she lays back down and closes her eyes with a small smile on her face. Dean looks at Mama, and she says, “He’s our miracle.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>When Eileen comes, she signs “sorry” to Dean as they lead Mama away in handcuffs. Cas holds his hand. Mama sees it. She smiles sadly at him, and all Dean can say is, “I’ll testify for you. I’ll get you out. I’ll do whatever it takes.”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t worry, baby,” she says, following Eileen willingly. “I love you more than the moon and stars.”</p><p> </p><p>He can’t imagine leaving, can’t try to sleep when his cousin is recovering from labor and his mother is on her way to jail and his friends are still being interviewed by the police and his father’s corpse is rotting somewhere in the woods. Dean lets Cas lead him to an empty room down the hall, which apparently Tran has designated as theirs for the night. There’s only one bed, and when Cas crawls into it and taps his chest, Dean follows suit. He lays his head right over Cas’s heart. It’s an uncomfortable bed, but the position calms him somewhat. At least he can hear Cas’s heartbeat.</p><p> </p><p>“She was a victim, too,” Cas says quietly. “Jody and Leahy know that. They’ll advocate for her.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean thinks of Mary Winchester’s sad eyes, so much like her own mother’s. “What if the Winchesters push for a trial?”</p><p> </p><p>Cas idly strokes his hair as he says, “I don’t think they’d do that, Dean. They don’t want to hurt you.”</p><p> </p><p>He’s not tired, but Dean lets his eyes fall closed. “It should have been me who had to—” He can’t finish the sentence.</p><p> </p><p>Cas’s hand pauses. “Why?” He’s surprised by the vehemence in Cas’s voice. “Why should you have to go through more trauma at that man’s hands?”</p><p> </p><p>“Because I was the one who wanted to escape in the first place!” He sits up, hands clenched into fists. “Because I’m the one who trusted the wrong people and got burned; I’m the one who put them all in danger. I’m the one he hated. I should’ve been the one to put him down!”</p><p> </p><p>“I disagree.” Dean doesn’t turn around, but he hears how clipped Cas’s words are. He can imagine the pointed look on his face. “No one should have <em>had</em> to do it. Not you, not your mother. The fact that it came to that was entirely his own doing. Years of cruelty with no hope of escape until his death — that was Samuel’s legacy, Dean. And it may be selfish of me, but I’m glad you were spared the guilt of killing a man you once considered your father.”</p><p> </p><p>“So now I get the guilt of leaving and having my mother kill him instead,” Dean snaps.</p><p> </p><p>“You didn’t <em>leave</em>, he tried to murder you! And I’m glad she killed him,” Cas says, raising his voice over Dean’s, “because otherwise I would have fucking done it myself!”</p><p> </p><p>Dean starts, twisting around to face Cas. Immediately Cas’s face softens, scowl fading into a sad frown. He stares at Dean, and Dean stares back, unsure what to say. Cas sighs.</p><p> </p><p>“The people who love you,” he says carefully, slowly, “want to protect you just as much as you want to protect them. Do you not know that, Dean? Do you—” Cas huffs a laugh, running a hand through his hair and making it stick up. “Do you really not realize how deeply you effect the people around you? How very loved you are? You set the wheels in motion for their escape; they rallied to save themselves because of you.”</p><p> </p><p>“I should have done more,” Dean protests, and Cas says, “It’s arrogance to assume you have to do everything yourself. Believe me, I know.” He pauses, adds, “Before you came into my life I thought I’d have to do everything alone. And I was miserable.” He smiles sadly. “If you need to have directly saved someone, then you saved me, Dean. You saved me from a lifetime of loneliness.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean lets his head droop to rest against Cas’s shoulder, and Cas’s arms come up to envelope him in a hug. “I’m glad they’re safe,” he mutters into Cas’s shirt, “but I wish I would have been there. It’s not just about them, either. It’s— It’s selfish, Cas; I wanted to be able to tell him that he didn’t own me.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas rubs his back. “He knew that already. And if he was looking for you at the Roadhouse, then he knew you survived. You won, Dean. You’re safe and your family is here. All of it. Jody said they’re searching for his scattered loyalists right now, and once they find them, his legacy will be well and truly dead. And yours will be the people who love you. It will live on. <em>You </em>will live on.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean swallows hard. He keeps his face pressed into Cas’s shoulder when he says, “You keep saying that. The people who love me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Because <em>I </em>love you,” Cas says. Dean feels him start to pull back, so he reaches to grab the back of Cas’s shirt and hold him tighter.</p><p> </p><p>“I love you,” he says, and it’s such a relief to feel Cas relax under his hands. “I love you, and—” And he knows now, with his cousin and his nephew down the hall and his mother in need of defense and Bobby and his sly job offers, that he can’t go anywhere. “I’m staying with you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Good.” Cas sounds choked up. “That’s— good.”</p><p> </p><p>And they hold each other until Dean finally falls asleep, feeling, for once in his life, safe.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Epilogue: The Lovers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Cas’s house hasn’t been this full since his siblings stopped talking to him. He remembers the last Christmas they spent together as a family — Michael, Luke, Anna, Gabe, and all the kids around the tree, cracking jokes and opening presents. And then there was Cas — off to the side, quiet. Hiding. Holding back. Wishing he could just tell them the truth: <em>I’m gay, and I don’t want to fake it anymore</em>.</p><p> </p><p>When he did finally tell them, that was the end. Funny how when Dean held his hand and introduced (and reintroduced) Cas to his family, that was only the beginning.</p><p> </p><p>John’s taking the longest to come around. He hasn’t said anything about his son's new relationship, and Cas doubts he ever will, but he knows the older man is uncomfortable with the idea of Dean living with Cas. He was quiet during dinner and he’s still quiet now, sitting on the couch with his arm around Mary. Cas will take quiet over confrontational if he has to. And, oddly enough, John’s reticence has actually made Sam open up to Dean more. He was the first of the Winchesters to greet Cas when they got off the plane for this visit, pulling him into a tight hug in front of his parents. It was weird, but Cas didn’t hate it. The brothers, including Adam, are talking in the kitchen while Dean bakes. From what Cas overhears it’s a somewhat awkward and stilted conversation, but at least they’re trying.</p><p> </p><p>Eileen Leahy is in the kitchen, too, laughing a little too hard at Sam’s dumb jokes. Sam might be laughing back a little too loud. Cas was surprised she agreed to come over on Christmas Eve — he knows she has family in Virginia — but now, well. Now he understands. The Winchester brothers are nothing if not exceedingly charming and handsome.</p><p> </p><p>Sitting next to Mary on the couch, Gwen Campbell is feeding baby Caleb. He’s fussy, and Mary’s giving her tips on how to deal with his colic. Cas hears her say, “Oh, Dean was like that. He’d cry all night. I’d have to take him out for car rides to get him to calm down…” Cas glances at Deanna. She’s in the far corner of the room, tucked away in the arm chair and listening with a soft, sad look on her face. Her relationship with her daughter is strained, but Cas knows Mary agreed to let Deanna come because she understands how much Dean loves her. There’s a lot of restoration to be done there — and the outcome of the case against Deanna is still unclear, despite how hard Leahy is pushing the federal prosecutor to have all charges dropped — but they’re all together for Christmas. That means something. It’s more than Cas’s family has had in years.</p><p> </p><p>“Why are you over here in the corner by yourself?” Bobby leans against the wall next to Cas, startling him from his thoughtful daze. He has a cup of spiked eggnog in his hand.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, just— Taking it all in, I guess.” Cas takes a swig from the cup when Bobby hands it to him, passing it right back with a cough. “God, who made that?”</p><p> </p><p>“Your boy,” Bobby says, sounding suspiciously proud. Cas rolls his eyes, pounding his fist against his chest in a vain effort to clear his throat. “I didn't come over here to kill ya, Cas. I wanted— I wanted to tell you I’m thinking of retiring.”</p><p> </p><p>If Cas still had any of that horrid eggnog in his mouth, he would choke on it. “What? When? <em>Why</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>Bobby looks at him with raised eyebrows that say <em>you idjit</em>. He starts counting off on his fingers. “I’m retiring; sometime early next year; I’m an old man. Does that answer your questions?”</p><p> </p><p>“I—” Cas finds himself at a loss for words. He’s often wished Bobby would retire — for the Bobby’s sanity and his own — but, truth be told, he loves his boss. He wouldn’t know what to do without him.</p><p> </p><p>“You deserve to be head Ranger, and you will be,” Bobby says gruffly. Cas stares at him. “Don’t give me that look. You can manage Garth and whatever kid they send in to replace me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Cas says, though he can’t imagine walking in the station in the morning and Bobby not greeting him with a “Look what the cat dragged in.” “Well, what will <em>you</em> do?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m reopening the salvage yard.” Bobby sips his eggnog. “I already asked Dean if he’d want to work for me while he’s getting used to the real world, and he said yes. Figured it would do him more good than following you around all day. And if I’m the one giving him the money to go back to school, well… He won’t take it as charity if he’s working hard for it. And I will work him hard, no doubt about it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Bobby,” Cas says, touched. “You do have a heart.”</p><p> </p><p>“Shut up.” Bobby glares at him. “We don’t have to be all soppy about it. I like you; I like the kid. I hope he sticks around for a while. He makes people happy.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” Cas swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. “He does, doesn’t he?” He turns toward the kitchen, where Dean’s leaning against the counter and talking to his brothers. He looks happy, too — face bright and open, laughing. Cas loves him so much it hurts.</p><p> </p><p>“Excuse me a minute,” he says to Bobby, because sometimes he gets overwhelmed by how much he loves Dean and he just can’t hold it in any longer. Because now he doesn’t have to. Cas walks into the kitchen, takes a look at the oven timer — twenty minutes left on the pie, plenty of time — and grabs Dean’s hand.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, Cas.” Dean grins at him.</p><p> </p><p>“Hello, Dean.” Cas tugs him toward the door. “Can I get you to help me with something real quick?”</p><p> </p><p>Dean waves goodbye to the group at the table, and Leahy signs something that makes him blush as they walk away. He’s talking a lot more these days, but she's still teaching him words for when he gets too overwhelmed to speak.</p><p> </p><p>“What did she say?” Cas asks as Dean follows him down the hall toward the bedroom they now share.</p><p> </p><p>“Nothing.” Dean’s still blushing. “What did you need?”</p><p> </p><p>“Also nothing.” Cas pulls the door shut, then presses Dean against it. “Just you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah.” Dean smiles as Cas kisses him.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> "I see."</span></p><p> </p><p>“I wasn’t sure if we were doing this in front of your family yet, and I just couldn’t wait.” Cas kisses his cheek, then his ear, then his throat. Dean’s head drops back against the door, giving Cas more access to his neck.</p><p> </p><p>“We probably shouldn’t kiss like this in front of them,” he says, sounding breathless as Cas sucks at his jaw. “No— No hickeys, okay?” Dean’s hand comes up to cradle the back of Cas’s head, fingers twinning in his hair. “Oh man, is this what it feels like to be a real teenager? Hooking up with your family down the hall?”</p><p> </p><p>Cas pulls back, kisses Dean’s lips. Slow, lingering. “I don’t know. Do you want to ‘hook up’ right now?”</p><p> </p><p>“Ugh, no air quotes,” Dean groans, but he’s laughing. “It’s not sexy, Cas, I’m sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>“Mmm.” Cas rolls his hips against Dean’s, just once, and smiles when Dean groans. “Is that sexy?”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t want to walk out of here with a boner,” Dean protests. He kisses Cas again. “God, when I get you alone tonight…”</p><p> </p><p>"I'm sure you'll make the most of it." Cas pulls back, rests his forehead against Dean’s. “Bobby told me about the job.”</p><p> </p><p>Dean huffs a laugh. “Really? You’re gonna make out with me then talk about Bobby?”</p><p> </p><p>“If I recall correctly, the first time we ‘hooked up’ you made a bunch of jokes about Bobby and then made out with me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Air quotes, Cas. Air quotes.” Dean sighs, but it’s fond. Exasperated. “Yeah, I took a job with Bobby. Is that— You don’t care, right? I told him to tell you he was retiring; I didn’t want you to feel left out or—”</p><p> </p><p>“Dean.” Cas kisses the tip of his nose, and Dean goes cross-eyed watching him. “I’m happy for you. Bobby could use your help, and I’m glad it gives you even more of a reason to stay here.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, yeah.” Dean’s hand moves down to rest on the back of his neck. “But we’ve also got Christian’s trial coming up, my mom’s case, Gwen and the baby, the search for Caleb… I have to stay for a lot of reasons.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas’s heart sinks, but then Dean smiles. “And you, dumbass. I thought I made it clear I’m here for you.”</p><p> </p><p>Cas closes his eyes, breathes Dean in. He smells like cinnamon and cologne. “Good. Because I need you.”</p><p> </p><p>“I might need you more,” Dean whispers, like there’s shame in it. Maybe for him there is. He’s spent his entire life being needed by people — Samuel, who wanted a son in his image; his mother, who he was convinced he needed to protect; Gwen, who needed a brother in a cold place. Now the Winchesters and Bobby need him, too. Maybe Dean thinks it shouldn’t go both ways, that he has to be a support system for Cas like he is for everyone else, that to ask for any reciprocation is selfish. Cas will spend the rest of his life proving to Dean there’s no shame in needing each other. In loving each other. He doesn’t have to hide anymore, and Dean doesn’t either.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s fine,” Cas says, kissing Dean once more before they have to go out and rejoin the fray. He leans back, takes Dean’s hand and smiles at him reassuringly. Dean smiles back, small and sweet. “That’s love.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A big thanks to my artist, choranaptyxic, for the gorgeous artwork you see in this story, and to the mods for running this challenge!</p><p>And thanks to you, reader! I appreciate you more than you'll ever know. </p><p>On a personal note, this is probably the last fic I'll write for Supernatural for a while. If the ending of this fic seems a little abrupt, well... let’s say I had plans for a sequel with more emphasis on Dean rebuilding relationships with Deanna and the Winchesters, but that may not happen now. The way the show ended was incredibly upsetting to me, and I don't do well with distancing my fanon from canon. I'll miss you guys, but I don't think I can keep contributing man hours to a show that for me has gone the way of Game of Thrones and How I Met Your Mother — at least not right now. To those who've read most of my works and commented on every one, I love you more than I love this stupid, disappointing show and as much as I'll always love Dean and Cas. You're the real MVPs. #fuckTPTB</p>
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